Contest Entry: Alexandria's Lament

Written to the prompt: Write a story or poem that includes an accidental discovery

Alexandria ‘s Lament

(569 words)

If I told him once, I told him a thousand times that he just shouldn’t drink. It’s not becoming, getting all red in the nose and bleary-eyed. Quite unbecoming, indeed. Besides, he can’t hold his liquor. Not Henry. Two shots and he’s a bumbling idiot. Well, damn him. Damn him to hell. I warned him. A thousand times I warned him. It’s not my fault.

The nerve! Coming home like a packer fresh from the pub. “Sorry I’m late, dear. Kiss-kiss. Business meeting, you know” And me! Sitting right here, the adoring wife listening to him, serving almond biscuits and tea while he’s carrying on, making up those lies. What did he say? Something about trying to woo information from Durham Plastics. Oh my! To think of it it’s almost funny. “I was trying to steal trade secrets from the competition.”

Oh, Henry, you bastard! You were hip deep in rubbers not plastics and the only competition you met with was mine -- and I didn’t even know she existed!

I wonder who she is. Probably some poor working girl he’s put up in a flat somewhere. Too bad he left so quickly. I’d have asked him: Well, what’s her name, Ol’ Boy? Is she young? Firm? Thighs like a filly? Do you ride her like a thoroughbred at Ascot? Oh please, Henry, do tell! I want to know the details. Every one. If I’m being replaced, I’d at least like to know by whom.

But you didn’t stick around, did you Henry? No. You fled like a singed rat from a ship fire.

He never could handle confrontation. Well, to hell with him then, the drunken fool. To hell with them both!

Oh, how shall I tell the children? Charles will be devastated, the way he looks up to Henry. He’ll cry, no doubt. Twenty years old and he still cuts loose like a lad with a skinned knee. That’s good, though. He’ll probably get over it quicker. But Lydia? Lydia will be quiet and stoic and probably say she’s suspected it all along. And I’ll hate her for saying so even if she is only trying to protect herself. But damn it! He’ll still be their father. It’s me he’s hurt. It’s me he’s tossed away like yesterday’s rubbish. I’m the one who will be coming home to an empty house. I'm the one who will be lying awake, afraid to sleep alone. And wondering. There’s all that wondering.

Why did he have to come home for tea today? Four days out of five he telephones to say he cannot make it. “Duty calls.” Duty and trollops! Well, he should have called today instead of arriving like a blundering idiot.

There he was, telling me all about his meeting with the competition and watching as I poured the tea. And then he got all gallant and said, “Oh, Alexandria, let me,” and he put two cubes of sugar in my cup.

“Henry,” I said, “what on earth are you doing?"

And he almost sang, “What do you mean, Lollypop? I always do this for you. Two cubes, right? Plop. Plop.” Then he froze, silver tongs midair, while the color slowly drained from his face and then returned.

And I waited. I waited until his faces turned an astonishingly deep shade of crimson, and then I said, “Henry, I’m not the one who takes sugar in her tea.”

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