Erica
I locked myself in my office to wait for them to dress and leave. Once, Brian knocked on the door and attempted to talk to me, but I ignored him. Distantly, I could hear the secretary complaining that Brian had said they were safe, and how embarrassed she was, and how she should have known better than to get involved with a committed man.
“Good,” I thought savagely. “I’m glad you’re suffering, too.”
A buzz from my pocket reminded me that I had my cell phone with me. Suddenly comforted, I whipped it from my pocket, flipped it open, and began to call…who? Who would I call with this news? My friends, who liked Brian ever–so-much? I could imagine their words: “Oh, sweetie, we’re so sorry. What a jerk! I can’t believe he cheated on you, and with that slut secretary to boot!” They just repeated what I already know, and all the while thinking to themselves, “Hehe, glad it wasn’t me.”
Then, I imagined calling my mother, but she would be even worse: “My darling Erica, you poor baby! Brian was just the nicest guy! Are you sure there wasn’t something you did, or said, to upset him? Because, really dear, keeping a man is hard work. Look at your father…”
No, I definitely was not calling her. I would tell them all later, but tonight, I needed to cope.
Finally, after about a half an hour of shuffling and the sounds of the two of them swearing at each other, there was only silence in the house. To be safe, I waited another thirty minutes, and then, with tears dried to my cheeks, I emerged.
Brian had obviously taken some time to pack. His suitcase, along with a bunch of his clothes, was gone, as well as his now-battered briefcase. There wasn’t much else there for him to take. He had never been very big on trying to make this place look like a home.
“Probably because he never felt like it was a home,” I realized bitterly. With trembling fingers, I reached out and picked up one of the few mementos that had actually managed to become a decoration here: a photo of the two of us, in the park by his office, smiling as if we were as happy as could be. It had been taken moments after our engagement. In the picture, the ring glinted merrily in the evening sun.
I glanced at my hand. The ring was still there, but it has lost all of its happy sheen. Disgustedly, I took it off and hurled it to the ground. Next, I flung the frame. Its glass shattered against the far wall. My heart pounding, I marched forward, seized the loosed picture from the broken glass, and tore into a dozen tiny, crumbled bits.
“Damn you, Brian!” I cried as I did so, my tears falling freely once again. “You and your perfect life!” Rip! “Great job!” Rip! “Great house!” Rip! “Great wedding!”
I screamed, and kicked the debris away. I was done. Done with being the good girl. Done with always doing what she was told, with marrying the “right” guy, with pleasing my parents, with bending over backward to let my boss humiliate me day and night.
“No, Erica Carter,” I grunted aloud. “You are done.”
And that meant that tonight, I was going on a mission.
I, Erica Carter, perfect student, perfect fiancé, perfect woman, was going to pick up a man––and not just any man. A bad boy, as different as possible from the clean-cut, crisp-collared man that Brian was.
My first stop was the shower. Not only was I going to shave my legs, as usual, but I was going to shave everything, if you catch my drift. I used to, but when Brian and I had stopped having sex regularly, I figured, “Why bother?”
Tonight, there was a reason to bother.
When I was done with that, I soaped my hair, washing away the pain and humiliation of the day. The tears from my cheeks. The stench of lowly office buildings that seeps into your skin. No, tonight I was going to smell wonderful. Finally finished and pink from scrubbing, I emerged from the shower feeling like a new woman. I liked it. This new person could (I hoped) be a confident one.
My next step was my wardrobe. At first, I appraised it with a sad sigh. Just hanger after hanger of boring, beige suit jackets, knee-length skirts, and low-slung black pumps.
“No,” I thought. “Those won’t do at all.”
I was about to turn away, about to give up, when a flash of red caught my eye: there, buried in the back of my designer closet! A wine-red trunk. The one I had taken to college, in which all of my college outfits were stored.
“You’re too old and fat for that,” I heard Brian’s voice say in my head. For a moment, I almost listened. Then, the image of his secretary, bent over before him, filled my mind, and all doubt was blown away. With a snarl, I pressed myself into the back of the closet, seized the handle to the trunk, and heaved it onto the bed.
Looking through its contents was like looking at the mementos of another person. High-heeled boots. Fringed flapper dresses. Skin-tight pencil skirts, to show off voluptuous hips. Makeup. And, Jesus Christ, not the kind of makeup I had in my bathroom now, full of dull shades of brown. No, this was RED! PURPLE! LIME GREEN! An assortment of colors so crazy I could not help but laugh. Smiling, I tossed aside the gaudy ones, then held onto my favorite: the bright red lipstick, and a soft, shimmery eye shadow.
I placed them atop my vanity for later use. First, I needed to pick the outfit.
Though I was unbelieving at first, I was very pleased to find that most of the outfits fit me. They were far too young-looking, of course, but still, that my waist remained the size it was in college filled me with enormous satisfaction. “Looks like eating right and working out paid off, Brian,” I snapped at the air, at the same time reminding myself not to go too crazy. Eventually, I found the perfect look: a cherry-red cocktail dress that hugged my hips and booty, had a wonderfully textured front to hide my little bit of tummy, and a low, flowing neckline to emphasize what I had to offer. I decided to pair it with glossy leather boots, and I was set.
Underneath it, I wore my laciest bra and a thong. Generally, I think thongs are silly, but if ever there was a night for one, it was tonight.
Next, I went for my hair. My hairdryer beneath the sink was so unused it was dusty, but, after a little bit of practice (and some trial and error) I was able to fashion my hair into a curly, wild look that flew away from my face like a runway model’s––at least, that’s how I hoped it looked. The dark and scared part of me insisted I looked like I had grabbed onto an electric wire.
“Shush, you,” I told myself. “You look great.”
Makeup. Shoes. A little clutch purse I hadn’t used since my cousin’s wedding. In it, I threw my I.D., some money, and a couple of condoms. I was on the pill, thank Christ, but it could never hurt to be safe.
All ready to go, I took a final pause in front of the mirror. What I saw almost made my cry.
“What are you doing, Erica?” I cried aloud. “You look ridiculous! Dressed like a teenager! Makeup like a vaudeville actress! My God, what were you thinking?”
I thought about that. What was I thinking? What was I doing? And it was then that I realized: stop. Stop thinking. Stop worrying. You have been doing that your entire life, and look where it has gotten you! A shattered engagement, a job you hate, and a cold and empty rental house.
“Don’t think,” I told myself. “Just do.”
I took a deep breath, and then, staggering slightly in my heels––which I hadn’t worn in years––I made my way to the kitchen of my apartment. And then, I did something I also hadn’t done in years:
I ordered a taxi. Beforehand, Brian would have given me no end of trouble for wasting the money. Money that would be better off going to his new fancy car, or that designer suit he loved so much. But now––finally––I did not have to worry about him. All I had to worry about was me. And “me” wanted a goddamn taxi.
While I waited, I fished out a bottle of rum from the back of the freezer that Brian had left there ages ago and sipped it, feeling rebellious. By the time the car arrived, I was pleasantly tipsy and warm, but, even more appropriately, I felt courageous.
“Okay, man-world,” I said, tottering to my feet. “Erica Carter is coming.”
I got into the taxi, told the guy to take me to the most exciting bar he knew, and set off.