Hard Feelings

by Eric Dalen

"I could never be with a man from Texas. They're so bold. Besides, it's too close to Mexico."

I looked up at the woman and smiled politely, lifting the book for her to take.

"That's the opening line from Chapter 12," she said as if I didn't know. "I just love that line."

"Well, thank you."

"Where did you come up with that? Or do you remember?"

She was in her mid-thirties, a little too much make-up, a little too much fluff in the hair, a camera in one hand and my novel in the other.

I looked past her at the line of people that went to the door, then out into the mall.

"I heard it in an airport, actually," I said, holding my hand out to the next woman in line, who handed me a copy of the same book.

"Really?" the camera-wielding lady said. "It does sound real, not like an invention or anything."

The bookstore assistant stepped up. "You'll have to move along so we can keep the line going. Mr. Cameron has many other people to attend to."

I had already cracked open the still-fresh hard cover of the next-in-line, preparing to ask what name I should put down, when the camera-wielding lady said: "Can't I take a picture?" Her voice had just enough whine to it for me to imagine a fully-formed pout attached.

"There are a lot of people waiting who have been here for quite a while --"

The assistant was cut off.

"I have been here quite a while, waiting for this, and I don't see what the big deal is over a little picture."

Welcome to Celebrityville, Mike, I thought.

I looked at the woman whose book I held, and smiled. "Excuse me for just a moment," I said. Then I turned to Camera Woman, still smiling. "Shoot."

She was pouting, I saw. And it deepened.

"Can't I be in it?"

I looked at the assistant who jumped right in, bless her heart.

"Mr. Cameron is not here for a photo opportunity, but for a book signing. Cameras are not allowed in here, and there's a sign outside that says so."

"What sign?" she asked with a slight twinkle in her eye that said she had seen it.

I decided not to make it an issue. The faster we get the woman her photo, the faster we get her out. So I stood.

"Come around here, and I'm sure Cyndi won't mind snapping the picture for you."

The woman beamed, shoving the camera at poor Cyndi and hurrying around the table to stand next to me before Cyndi could open her mouth to object. I put my arm around the woman's waist and smiled. The woman smiled. Cyndi put the camera to her face and pressed a button. A second after the flash went off, Cyndi moved in, taking the woman by the arm and ushering her away, camera and book in tow.

I sat down, picking up my pen.

"Sorry about that. Who should I make this out to?"

"Joann," the woman said, quickly spelling it.

I scribbled a few words of thanks, and passed the book back to her. The lady thanked me and moved on.

The next book hit the table. It was a paperback copy of A World Of Hurt, my first novel. I looked up smiling. Then the smile faltered.

It was Melissa.

I'm sure the shock showed on my face.

"Hi," she said, uncertainly.

"Hi, Mel." I managed to get the smile back on. "What are you doing here?"

"I came for directions." Her voice held the caustic tone that had always accompanied her sarcasm.

I let my polite smile slide into a grin. "Really."

The uncertainty returned to her face. "Can we talk?" Then she was aware of all the people around her. "Maybe later?"

I checked my watch. "This ends in about an hour. Do you want to stick around until then?"

She pretended to think this over. "Okay. Should I meet you here?"

"Sure." I touched the cover of the book. "Want me to sign it?"

Melissa shook her head, taking the paperback away and leaving.

* * *

It had been six years since I last saw Melissa, the day after the divorce papers had arrived in the mail. She had showed up to get her copy. I had asked her in an almost off-handed way when she was going to pick up the rest of her stuff. It had been a year since she left, and most of it was still there. Only some of her clothes had been taken.

"Fine," she had said, suddenly angry for no reason I could see. "I'll take care of it." Then she walked out.

An hour later, the man she had denied having the affair with called and told me that "Melissa doesn't want to talk with you ever again. If you want to talk with her, you'll have to talk with me."

His words sent me into a version of Vietnam Vet Syndrome, but instead of flashing emotionally back to a war, I was vividly recalling the fifth grade. I had the urge to tell him that my dad could beat up his dad. Instead, I told him that since I'd had the locks changed and she didn't have a key to the apartment, she would have to call before coming over if she wanted to get her stuff. Then I hung up.

She never called, and a couple of years later I gave her stuff to Goodwill. I never knew where she was, or what happened to her. For all I knew, she could have won the lottery, moved to Venezuela, or died in a car accident. Or all three. I had no idea.

Until now.

While our marriage had fallen apart over the imaginary affair (imaginary on my part, she insisted), we managed to keep the separation and divorce as pleasant as possible. If "pleasant" is the right word. The yelling and screaming happened before I asked her to leave. After that, it was like the surface of a lake early in the morning: Smooth, calm and cold.

Now she's back, and she wants to talk.

Oh good.

* * *

The signing was supposed to be over at 8 P.M., but when 8 came, there were still ten or twelve people in line, so I finished up with them, seeing Mel standing by the door, waiting. I thanked the bookstore staff, chatted with them for a few minutes, and headed up to the front.

"There's a little café at the end of the mall," I said. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Sure."

We started walking in that direction.

"You look good," I said, which was the truth -- though she looked pretty much the same as I remember her, only her hair was cut shorter and she had gained 20 pounds.

"Thanks."

"You married?"

"No," she said. "Not anymore." She walked with her head down, watching her feet move. "You?"

"Just over a year now."

That brought us into a silence.

We reached the cafe and took a booth.

"Are you hungry?"

She shook her head. "But you can order something if you are."

I was, but I wouldn't.

"What's you wife's name?"

"Suzanne," I said as the waitress approached. We both ordered coffee.

"Any kids?"

"Not yet."

She smiled, and I remembered what that smile meant -- it was an amused grin mixed with naughtiness.

"And you?" I asked, pulling the rug out from under that smile.

"No," she said, looking away.

There was a whole issue there, and she wanted to avoid it. Good for her, since it was my issue, and I would have given her a real reason to not want to talk to me ever again.

"So now you're a best-selling author," she said, trying to be as pleasant as possible and not succeeding very well.

I smiled and nodded. The first book was not a bestseller by any means. The second wasn't either, but sold well in paperback. The latest one, though, took off right out of the starting gate, without anyone having an explanation as to why. I could care less why. I'm just glad it did.

"Your dream come true." She said this with a tone that said: You got yours but I didn't get mine. As if this were a contest.

"It's been fun." I fiddled with my napkin. "What are you doing?" I said this carefully, not wanting to bring up the imaginary affair with her boss, but curious how it turned out.

"Jeremy ended up filing for bankruptcy. Then I worked for Davis Halpern."

"Another lawyer?"

She nodded. "Corporate, mainly."

The waitress showed up with our cups. The server didn't seem happy that all we were ordering was coffee. It was a café. What did she expect?

"So," I said as Mel took a couple of Sweet N Low packages and ripped them open, "what's up?"

She stirred in the sweetener, looking thoughtful. "I need money."

Back at the bookstore, while I was signing copies of Left Twisting, I considered the various reasons Melissa would suddenly want to talk with me.

1) She missed me.

2) She wanted to congratulate me.

3) She needed money.

I pretty much figured Mel did not miss me, and congratulations could have been handed out in the bookstore. Besides, Liz had warned me "When you start making money, everyone becomes your friend." In her third decade as an agent, Liz had seen it all before.

I let my disappointment show, but I didn't say anything.

"I'm out of work, and the unemployment benefits are up."

"I thought you worked for a lawyer."

"I did until he ... fired me."

I read between the lines. Until he broke up with her.

I reserved my right to remain silent.

She spoke in barely a whisper, clearly embarrassed.

"I'm desperate. I'm about to get evicted."

I had changed since she left. I learned a lot about me and the world in general. I discovered how to live on my own, by myself. I found peace, and then I found love. I had recovered, healed, and started fresh. The man I was ten years ago when we got married and the man I am today are two different people.

Melissa hadn't changed at all. Only her hair was cut shorter and she had gained twenty pounds.

One of the two things I had learned since Mel left was that you can't change people -- sometimes, they can't even change themselves. Maybe it will take a trip to rock bottom before they realize the necessity to take another course. And when people take the path to failure, let them fail. They know the road back.

The other thing I learned was that when you know what the right thing is, you do it. When you have the opportunity to help, you help. If you can do good, you do it.

The problem I faced was whether I would be giving her a helping hand, handing her a new map to hell.

"How much?" I asked.

Her eyes met mine. "Let's negotiate."

I blinked at her. "Negotiate? What do you mean -- negotiate?"

"I mean I have a figure in mind, and let's see if you'll meet it."

I shook my head. "You must think I'm rich or something."

"No. But you will be."

"Oh, I see. So now you're psychic. What happened, did you get hit on the head?"

She gave me a flat, tired look that I remembered quite well. It said Shut up, you're not funny.

As I sipped my coffee, I considered getting up and leaving -- and sticking Ms. Destitute with the tab. Then my more reasonable side caught up, which I really should have ignored.

"What is the figure you have in your mind?" I asked.

"Half."

I laughed. I didn't mean to, but it was funny. "Half? Half of what?"

"Half of whatever you make."

I was still smiling, wanting to laugh more. "Do you have any idea how much I've made this year?"

She shook her head, her smile matching mine.

"$60,000. That was my advance. I was able to quit the warehouse to devote full time to my writing, but I'm not floating in money. My first royalty check is due in the next couple of months, which may push me into the hundred grand range, but only by an inch or two. I have a lot of old bills to pay off, a couple of car loans, a new mortgage, and we need new furniture to fill the new house -- and you want half?" I laughed again. "Half of nothing is still nothing."

"Then I'll take half of the royalty check."

I continued to smile, looking around the café. I wanted to say I'll think about it just so I could leave, but I felt compelled to argue. How vain we are.

Mel leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her arms flat.

"Then I'll take half of the next one, and the one after that, and the one after that. And I'll keep taking them until you're dead and can't write the checks anymore."

I began to feel an intense burning right behind my eyeballs. The smile I had worn evaporated into a hard stare. If looks could kill, I'd be serving twenty-five-to-life.

"No," I said, coldly. "I don't think so."

Her smile did not change. "Oh yes you will. And you'll do it happily and without question. You see, this is how I figure it --"

She wrapped her hands around her coffee cup and looked thoughtful again.

"-- I made you."

I stared at her, allowing the depths of her delusions to sink in. If this is what she thought, then I was right. I should have left.

She made me. I could have laughed real hard at that one.

She made me.

I've heard about women who work long hours while their men go to college and get degrees, and then when they graduate, the men get big, high-paying jobs and come home one day to tell their wives they want a divorce. The women end up with nothing after sacrificing all they had for the men they loved.

That wasn't our marriage.

Melissa worked. I worked. We both contributed to the rent, the bills, the groceries. Neither of us went to school. There was no big career looming on the horizon when I showed her the door so she could play imaginary house with her boss. I didn't start writing until after she left -- and then only as a way to kill the boredom and loneliness I had.

"And how do you figure that?" I managed to say this with a calm voice.

"In this book --" She held up the copy of A World Of Hurt, and read from the back cover. "-- after the horrible death of his daughter, Stephan Lydon discovers his wife's affair and uncovers the tragic past and present that reveals the loss of his little girl may have been more than an accident -- and the end of his marriage was more than a selfish act of lust."

I always hated that blurb. It told too much of the plot.

I sipped my coffee and waited. This wasn't my game, and I wasn't going to play. At best, I'd be referee.

"The wife has the affair with her boss," Mel continued, slamming the book down on the table with a whack. The coffee cups jumped slightly. Her sarcasm turned into snide. "Isn't that convenient?"

I shrugged.

"Then in your second book -- what was it called? The Death Of Me? I think that's it. The male character sells the belongings of the philandering wife who left him for her lover."

She glared at me for a moment.

"You sold my stuff?"

"No. I gave it away."

She glared some more. She did that real well.

I gazed back, waiting her out.

"Without me," she said, "you wouldn't be where you are now."

I nodded, agreeing. "I'd be at home, relaxing."

"You used my life -- and our time together -- as stories in your writing. You then earned money from those stories. I was half of those stories, and I deserve half of the money."

I really shouldn't have, but I laughed again.

"This isn't funny."

"I made no money on those books. I got a $5,000 advance on World, and that was it. I got $7,500 on Death, and I've seen some royalties on the paperback, but not anything that would pay for a swimming pool. The real money I've made has been on Left Twisting, and that novel, you may know, has nothing to do with affairs or bosses or selling furniture." I leaned in as far as the table would let me. "It has nothing to do with you."

"But without the other two books, you never would have written the third." She leaned in just as close. "Without them, you'd still be putting price tags on shoe boxes."

I sat back, feeling tired and disgusted. My hand hurt from all the books I signed. I was hungry. And my head was starting to ache after listening to all this crap.

I placed my palms on the table. "Well, this has been lovely, Mel. You've brightened my day. I hope you've had as good of a time as I have, but I really have to go."

I slid out of the booth and stood. I took out my wallet and found $45 -- two twenties and a five. I put the five on the table.

"Keep the change," I said.

"You'll regret this, Mike."

I leaned down and smiled at her, trying to use what little energy I had to not scream at this woman.

"Why will I regret it, Mel? If I don't do what you say, then what will you do? Huh? What will you do? Show up at my next signing?" The smile hurt. I was now beyond angry -- but still in control.

She looked up at me, her face plain, her eyes blank, her whole body expressionless.

"No," she said, very calmly. "If you don't do what I want, then I'll tell," she said.

It took a several seconds, then my phony smile faded.

I knew what she meant, and I knew she meant it.

* * *

"Tell what?" Suzanne asked.

We were sitting on the couch, the TV on but ignored. She had her feet curled under her, looking about as different from Mel as possible -- though I was a little startled to realize they both had almost the same haircut.

I was leaning forward, staring at my hands as I rubbed the palms together. I had told her the story before we were even married. Well, part of it. I had told the police part of it too. Everyone believed me. It should have been left at that.

But I had told Melissa the whole thing.

I'm not sure why I did that. Maybe it was my younger, misguided belief that there should be no secrets between a husband and wife. Even God keeps secrets.

To Suzanne, I shrugged. This not only added to the secret, but also turned it into a lie. "I've been trying to figure that out."

"Did you ask her?"

I shook my head. "At that point, I heard enough and just wanted to get out. It's all a game."

That much was true. I had heard enough and it was all a game.

Suzanne picked up her ice tea, and we both watched the condensation on the outside of the glass drip onto the napkin she used as a coaster. "But it's not a game anymore. Now you're not a nobody. The press might be interested."

"The press? Interested in what? The only press I've had are book reviews -- and not even really good ones at that."

I watched her take a sip, her hand cupped under the glass to keep it from dripping on her blouse. "What about the tabloids?"

I shook my head and looked away. "I'm not a celebrity. I've only had one novel inch onto the best-seller chart."

"Yeah, but it inched into the top five, and sat there for two months. That's not a little thing."

I just shook my head again, the only thing I could do for now.

"Well, what could it be?" she asked, slowly adding a grin to her face. "Maybe you slept with someone who's now unbelievably famous?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," I said, sighing. I couldn't hide that this was bothering me.

"At least I can't blackmail you. I'm already getting half of your money." She said this with a deadpan tone, which made me smile.

I stood and slapped my hands together as if I made my decision. "I'm not going to pay her anything, and that's all there is to it."

I turned and went to the kitchen. I made myself a sandwich, even though I wasn't hungry anymore.

* * *

I didn't hear from Melissa for a month, and when she did contact me, I still didn't really hear from her.

wheres my money? was the subject line of the e-mail, complete with missing apostrophe and lack of capitalization. I critique everything. I opened the message up and read the only sentence:

"wheres my money?"

Déjà vu.

I clicked REPLY and noticed Melissa's e-mail had come from one of those free web-based addresses that promoted not only privacy, but anonymity.

"I've had no way to contact you, until now."

I sent it off without elaborating or signing my name. When in Rome, I thought.

The next day, a reply:

"thursday 800pm."

I could only assume she wanted to meet at the same café, so I closed the e-mail and didn't bother to reply.

I also didn't bother to go.

* * *

It was on Thursday that Liz called, her cigarette-torched voice making her sound like Lauren Bacall on a respirator.

"Hey kiddo, got a call back from Paramount. They're offering $750,000 for the screen rights. I told them we'll think about it." A pause while she took a breathy drag on her cancer stick. "So, whaddya think?"

"I think I like the sound of it. How is it paid out?"

"Well, they're trying to talk me into a $100,000 option, to be picked up within six months, but that just gives them six months to change their minds. I told them if we wanted options, we'd buy a car."

I chuckled. I only met Liz once, and she looked nothing like Lauren Bacall, but more like Dr. Ruth give or take 80 pounds and a few extra cans of hairspray.

"Well, it sounds fine to me," I said. "I don't suppose I'll have any input on how the movie is made."

Another breathy drag. "You suppose right, kiddo. That's why they pay you the big bucks -- so they can destroy your work while you sit hopelessly by, and you can't say or do anything about it."

"Except spend the money."

"Hey, you earned it. How's the next one?"

"Coming along. I can send you the first few chapters. I don't like the opening, though."

"You never do, kiddo. Ah well, gotta go bother someone else. Ciao."

She hung up before I could say good-bye, and a question crossed my mind: Would the terms of sale for Left Twisting make the newspapers? Variety and The Hollywood Reporter, sure, even Publishers Weekly -- but The Times?

I hoped not.

* * *

It didn't appear in the Los Angeles Times, but it didn't matter. Melissa found out anyway.

"heerd about your deel," the e-mail said. "you owe me a coffe. thursday 8pm and dont stand me up again."

Mel's not illiterate. She just can't spell.

I ignored this message too, hoping I'd never hear from her again, but with the feeling that wouldn't be the case.

* * *

Thursday came and went, and I actually forgot about the supposed appointment. I remembered the next morning when I was halfway to the bank and Melissa popped up in the back seat. I nearly drove off the road in surprise.

"I told you, you'd regret this."

Once my steering returned to normal, I tried to look at her in the rearview mirror. From what I could see, she didn't look good at all.

I tried to find a place to park.

"No, keep driving," she said, and I felt something cold on the side of my neck. "Take me to your bank."

She pulled the gun away, and sat back in the seat.

I didn't say anything, though the temptation to say "You'll never get away with this!" was nearly overwhelming. Maybe when people are scared they revert to bad movie lingo. I gritted my teeth and kept driving, trying to think of ways out.

When we pulled into the parking lot, she told me where to park. Once the engine was off she said:

"Give me your ATM card."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Give me your ATM card."

I took a deep breath and got my wallet out. I flipped the card at her and it bounced off her forehead, landing in her lap.

"Stop it," she said, starting to sound annoyed.

"If anything happens to me, my wife knows everything. She'll go to the police."

"Nothing's going to happen to you, you turd. What's the PIN number?"

I paused, thinking.

She sighed. "Mike, it's very simple. I've got a gun. Just tell me your PIN."

"Make up your mind -- you're either going to shoot me or not."

She sighed again, sounding more exasperated. The metal of the gun's barrel touched the back of my neck. "If you don't give me the PIN, I'll shoot you. Is that clear enough for you?"

I considered this. I didn't really believe she would shoot, but I didn't really want to test my theory either.

"Four four one four," I said.

The gun was retracted.

"Okay, get out."

I shook my head, starting to feel my nerves twang. "You have the card, and you have the PIN. Get out of my life."

She sat there for half a minute, chewing on this. Then the door opened and she got out. I watched her walk toward the bank and I started the car.

She didn't turn around.

* * *

I bought a gun. I didn't really want to, but I had no choice. I had a wife to consider, not to mention my own safety.

I reported the ATM card as stolen, and generally became very paranoid. Since the bank would only allow $300 withdrawals from the ATM per day, I had to assume Melissa would be back. I worked up different scenarios in my head in the event of her return.

It didn't take long.

"meet me", the e-mail said. "thursday 8 pm balistone park you know"

I did know. There was a statue of Murphy Balistone, a local war hero. It stood in front of a crop of trees, and mingled in the trees was a walking path dotted here and there with park benches. The fourth bench had been "our" spot.

I was going to ignore the e-mail, as usual, but wasn't interested in having Mel pop up in my backseat or surprise me from some other location in order to get my attention. I would have to meet this problem head on.

"I can't make it at 8," I wrote back. "I have a book signing until 8:30. Make it 10."

* * *

I left the book signing not feeling very good. My stomach was full of butterflies and other bugs that were not suitable for digestion. The weight of what I had to do bore down on me incessantly. I thought it over and over for two days and had reached the point of backing down, just giving Mel what she wanted. But I knew I couldn't. Sooner or later it would come down to this night.

I got there at about a quarter to nine. The area was dark and empty and I took a seat behind a nearby tree where I could watch the bench without being seen. There were sounds in the brush of scurrying things -- squirrels or jackrabbits, maybe -- and more than once, the sound of a bigger creature maybe a hundred yards away. Some sort of night bird squealed its warning cry every so often, sending chills up my back. I heard something fly overhead, slow and labored, and told myself it was only an owl.

It was an hour before she showed up, and by then my nerves were as taught as the trip-wire on a booby trap. She stood by the bench, looking around, waiting. She was wearing dark clothing like I was, so I couldn't testify in court that it was her, but I knew. Eventually, after several minutes of nervous pacing, she finally sat.

When I was a teenager, I learned that if I moved extremely slowly, I could make no noise at all. This was extremely beneficial for sneaking out of the house, and (much later) sneaking back in. Sitting on the ground, with my butt planted in a bunch of dead leaves with dry twigs and branches for support, it was a little more tricky, but still possible. I was on my feet in a few minutes and began walking silently "like an Indian" as my grandfather taught me -- heel touching first, and then rolling the foot to the toes. Only I did it much more slowly.

I was within twenty feet of the bench before she sensed I was there, and she spun, frightened, her breath shooting out of her in surprise.

I already had my gun drawn.

"Hi Mel. Nice to see you here."

"You scared the hell out of me!"

"Good," I said, wanting to add something funny about how getting the hell scared out of a person is good for the soul, but I was too wound up. All I could say was: "Now give me your gun."

I couldn't see the expression on her face -- it was so dark, I could barely make out her nose -- but I could imagine it. Foul and hateful.

She started to reach in her pocket, and I realized that having her give me the weapon was not a good idea.

"Wait!" Then I moved in, stepped around behind her and plucked the revolver from her left pocket with my left hand. "Sit down."

She did, silently, and I knew she understood what was happening.

"You underestimated me, Mel. You thought you could intimidate me into having it your way, but you've always had it your way -- and now that you've discovered the limitations of your way you want to just take what others worked honestly for. You tried to have your cake and eat it too. You wanted to stay married while you screwed around with your boss, and you figured I would just take it."

I took a deep breath, realizing just how close to tears I was. Ripping open these old wounds is just as painful the second time.

"Well, you found out I wasn't as weak as you thought. It shocked you, didn't it? I actually had the spine to stand up to you. And now you're back, trying it again."

I heard her sniff and saw a hand quickly wipe at her face.

"So what is it? What's got you in such a bad way?"

There was a long pause, and I waited it out. I really wanted to know.

"I was with this guy," she started. "He was the one, you know? The one." She kind of laughed, then sniffed. "Oh, God, he was good. Really got me going."

I didn't quite know what she meant -- at first I thought she meant sexually, but wasn't sure.

"I was really in love. He didn't knock me head over heels, but just knocked me flat."

Another pause.

"Then he knocked me up."

She gave the sarcastic half-laugh that I knew so well.

"I guess it wasn't just his fault. But actually ..."

She drifted off, and for a full minute I thought she wasn't going to finish.

"... I actually liked the idea. I was in love, he loved me. The time seemed right. But when I told him, he ..."

I waited until I realized that this time she wasn't going to finish.

"He what?"

"He called me stupid and left."

There's something about us as people that, even when we've been horribly hurt and troubled by someone else, we still feel sorry for them when they've been hurt. I kept my mouth shut, trying to stay plugged in to the fact that this woman committed adultery and blackmailed me.

"As I came to grips with what he'd done to me, and accepted that I would just have to carry on, I ..."

Another drifting off. I didn't know whether to be annoyed or stay patient. Before I could decide, she continued.

"I had a miscarriage."

I took a deep breath, almost a sigh, and said "I'm sorry."

"Thanks." She said this calmly, sadly.

"But what does this have to do with you blackmailing me?"

Her head was pointed in my direction, and although I couldn't see her face, I could sense the smirk.

"Because I hate you."

"Oh. I see. Well, that's clear enough, then."

She suddenly stood, surprising me, making me take a step backwards.

"I'm tired of people using me. You used me, Barry used me, Jeremy used me, Simon used me."

"I didn't use you."

"Yes you did, with your writing. Just like you used Shauna."

"I told you, that was an accident."

"Then why did you hide it? Huh? Why lie Mike?"

"I don't have to defend myself to you."

"Yes you do, because I know the secret. What good is a secret if it can't be told?"

I felt the rage come. In a way, it was almost soothing because it led me to where I needed to go.

I raised the gun in my left hand -- Melissa's cheap revolver -- and I fired once.

It was so loud.

Melissa slumped to the ground, and I stood over her, breathing hard, feeling the bugs and butterflies suddenly going crazy inside of me.

"Mel," I whispered. "Mel?" I kicked her foot.

Nothing.

I stood there for another minute, trying to calm down, to think, to decide what to do.

But I knew what to do, and I did it, quickly rubbing the fingerprints off the gun. Then I kneeled and found Mel's right hand. I placed the gun in it and wrapped her fingers around it as best I could, then pulled the trigger, pointing it off toward the trees. The second gunshot was just as loud. I let the hand and gun fall, and heard the gun clatter a couple feet away.

Then I left, making my way to the car, wondering if anyone had heard either of the gunshots.

* * *

When I got home, Suzanne knew something was wrong. I tried to hide it, but you know how wives are.

"You met her, didn't you?" she asked, making it sound like I was having an affair with my ex-wife.

"She came back for more money."

Suzanne looked at me patiently, waiting for the explanation. And I told her. Some of it.

I was going to tell her all of it, but I cherish Suzanne. "True love" sounds like such a corny thing to say, but it fits, and I don't want to lose that. I lost it with Mel, and Shauna. Both dead. I made the mistake of telling Melissa about Shauna, about how it wasn't really a suicide, and I trusted her. Look where it got me. I care deeply about Suzanne. I don't want anything to happen to her. The less she knows, the better.

"I told her she could tell everybody in the world if she wanted, but I wasn't going to give her anymore money."

"And what did she say?"

I smirked a little. "She called me some choice names and ridiculed various parts of my body and family history before storming off." I paused, losing the smirk. "I worry about her though."

Suzanne watched my face. "You think she might hurt herself?"

I looked away and shook my head, finding it very difficult to look at my wife.

"I don't know," I said. "I don't know."

"Hard Feelings"

© Eric Dalen / Sinister Duck Music. All rights reserved.