The Last Picnic

Sweet Jesus, I've lost my wife.

This thought, and many more, flitted in and out of Steven's mind as he ran through low branches and leaves with no indication he would find Teri.

After thirteen years of running him ragged, Teri had finally agreed to settle. He heard them – those wretched "friends" and "family" and "bystanders". Boy did she settle. But screw them, the past 48 hours were magic. Until now. He took poison sumac to the face at a full sprint, and still had no idea where Teri was.

God I already itch.

The picnic was his idea, the location was hers. Who the hell wanted to go to Rappaccini's garden? No other "garden" Steven knew of contained Toxicodendron. None of them. But, sure enough, she got what she wanted. More than Steven could say.

Just as he was beginning to lose his breath, he heard a laugh. Her laugh. The disgusting kind of laugh only a mother (or a husband) could love or accept or bear.

"Goddamnit, Teri," he said, jogging in the general direction of the laugh, "where the hell did you go?"

Steven stared into the hedges, bordering a well-worn pathway. He sighed, and began to follow the maze. First Rappaccini, now Crete? That's what he got for marrying an English major.

Laughter. Again. Closer.

Steven turned a corner.

He rounded another. And tripped to the ground.

He turned to see his wife – wearing much less than he remembered. And a man who was not Steven.

"Steven," Teri stammered, "this isn't – oh my God, your face!"

"Fuck my face – your clothes! This – who the hell is he?"

"Steven – I didn't –"

"I do."

"What?"

"I meant what I said," he said, "You owe me Benadryl and an annulment."