From Italy with Love

The universe must really hate her at the moment. The last few weeks had been trying. More than trying, if she were to ran it by her standards. And you couldn't possibly underestimate her standards as she knew and experienced well truly trying times. What was it she said before? 'You love without looking.' Context was not the same, but still, fuck that. I looked. I fucking looked so I fucking saw, she angrily thought to herself.

It started almost four weeks ago. She was to attend an event, and like what she had done for more than three decades, informed her husband and asked him to accompany her. It would have been simple and glitch-free had Don accepted her invitation. Unfortunately, he didn't. He had a new client who claimed she'd been interested in Don's works for years but only recently found the time and money to reach out to Don. She didn't mind it. Clients were everything. Clients meant money, not that they needed it, but it didn't hurt either. Most of all, clients made her husband felt good about himself--about being an artist. Because it meant that someone appreciated and understood her husband's artworks. So like a lovely and understanding wife that she was, she smiled and pretended it was okay and she understood when her husband turned her offer down.

Unfortunately, the turning down of her invitation somewhat became the norm after this new client entered their peaceful married life. Really, she wouldn't have been bothered, except their friends had been asking for Don. 

'Where's your husband tonight, Mrs. Gummer?' 'Meryl, where's Don?' 'You really shouldn't let him stay too long in his studio.' 'Give him a breather and take him with you some time, will you? We miss him!' 

All these words, phrases and questions were starting to get on her nerves. Her standard response had been, 'Believe me, if I have a say, I'd drag him here. But he's busy with his new project. I didn't have the heart to force him to accompany me.' Fuck yes, she didn't. Because after Don turned down a couple of her invitations, aided by what seemed like never ending queries as to where her perfect husband was, she finally snapped.

And snap she did.

She'd been very short-tempered with him--very being the keyword. She's normally short-tempered--Don had been used to that. The kids knew that. She's grumpy, most of the time, at least that's what it felt like for her. She knew that. But lately, she'd been pure evil. Heartless even.

She couldn't quite grasp why on earth all these parties and charity events were happening now, of all days, why when Don's busy and had this new client. She hated attending these things alone, and wouldn't attend, really, had she had the guts to turn some of them down. She did, turn some of them down, the ones that didn't seem too important. But the others, she just couldn't because it was either a dear friend's birthday celebration, or an event for a cause she staunchly support.

So this pent up anger had been building up for almost a month now, and tonight, it all boiled down.

She was preparing for another event when she noticed her husband's white shirt beside the laundry basket. Why he couldn't put his laundry in the basket after been nagged by her for more than three decades was beyond her. She recently stopped the nagging part and just accepted that there really were some things men seemed to be incapable of doing. Like putting the dirty shirt in the laundry basket instead of throwing it beside the basket.

Picking up her husband's white shirt, the first thing she noticed was the smell. Definitely not Don's cologne, or the smell of the fabric conditioner she used for their clothes. It smelled like... wild roses. The distinct smell made Meryl's nostrils flare up, and when she shook and searched the shirt for any other 'sign', there it was--staring right at her. A smudge of what seemed to be a pink lipstick. Fucking classic.