Free Murder 101 by Maggie Barbieri Page B

drunk is more like it. Just me and a bunch of boring papers on Macbeth; can’t a girl have something to get her through? He loved me so much that I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth.
    He put all of my items in a bag and looked at me sadly. “How are you doing, my friend? Really?”
    Tony had gotten the full scoop about my divorce from my cleaning lady, Magda. I loved her, but she had a big mouth. The month I bought an ovulation kit, I swore that I saw one of her Hungarian friends in the juice aisle of the supermarket put some kind of spell on my abdominal area. Fortunately, it was the spell that made you barren when you were married to lying, cheating assholes. “I’m fine, Tony,” I said, picking up my bag. “Really.” I leaned over and kissed his cheek.
    He pretended to swoon. “Anytime you are ready for me, I’m yours!” he called, as the door swung shut and the jangling bells sounded again. I decided that if I ever found myself considering his offer with any seriousness, I would sell my house and move to Canada.
    I had lived alone for six months. Even after Ray and I had decided to call it quits, I let him stay on until he got his life in order—finding an apartment, buying a car, paying off the Visa—which was about six months as well. He had slept in my home office, which had a futon, a computer, and a closet. I kept the master bedroom, my master bath and Jacuzzi, and the king-size bed. Seemed only fair.
    Even though Ray had moved out six months ago and I had been living alone since then, I hadn’t been divorced until the week before. In my mind, being legally separated and officially divorced were two different things. As long as I was legally separated, I was still married, and therefore, not alone. Officially divorced meant that I was on my own, and, after nine years with one man, it was a little frightening. In my head, the whole thing made perfect sense.
    I turned onto my street and walked the last quarter mile to my house. In the air, there was a smell of steak cooking, and my mouth started to water. The chips in my bag were singing a crunchy siren song as they jostled against my hip. I couldn’t wait to break them open along with my first giant can of Foster’s.
    I switched on the kitchen light when I entered, put the bag with my food down on the counter, pulled out a can of beer, and ripped open the bag of chips, shoving a giant handful in my mouth. My briefcase was still crisscross across my chest. I cracked open the beer and took a large swallow, instantly remembering why I never drink beer—it was bitter, sudsy, and made me burp. But a nice, smooth glow was cast over my body, and I sighed, thinking that I could become a beer drinker in my new life as a single thirtysomething. I imagined myself at singles’ parties, hoisting beers, a big grin on my face, telling jokes and meeting lots of other single people. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. As long as I had beer and a few single friends, I could live the life of a Dockers’ khaki commercial: good friends, good times, and a few beers. It was not lost on me that all of the people in those commercials were men. What did that mean? I would deal with that fact later, along with my train dream.
    I took out the sandwich and opened the paper in which it was wrapped. I still had my raincoat on, but it didn’t matter. I was single and alone, eating over my Formica counter, standing up. I could do whatever I wanted. Ray wasn’t here to tell me how many calories, triglycerides, nitrates, or general shit was in my food.
    I took a huge bite of the sandwich, chicken salad dripping out of the corners of my mouth (note to self: don’t buy chicken salad right before Tony closes) when there was a knock at the back door. I had been so engaged in my sandwich that I hadn’t noticed a car, headlights blazing, parked right in front of my detached garage. I nearly choked. I looked through the panes of glass in the back door to find Detective Crawford