Free Geekus Interruptus by Mickey J. Corrigan Page A

traveled on the
weekends now, and, when he came home, he acted strangely. Guilty and aloof.
Plus, his shirts smelled bad. Like sweat and something else. Garlic pizza?
Burnt rubber? She wasn’t sure.
    Marcy didn’t know what to do about their
growing estrangement, so she went shopping at Victoria’s Secret and took to
prancing around the house in lacy thongs. When he noticed, which wasn’t often,
Jess sometimes made love to her. But not with his usual intensity. Something
about their lovemaking was perfunctory. Their relationship had obviously gone
off track.
    Once their sporadic sex life petered out entirely
and she couldn’t get Jess’s attention no matter what kind of cheeky get-up she
danced around in, the lights clicked on in Marcy’s brain. Suddenly, a neon sign
behind her eyes began flashing. Affair, affair, he’s having an affair! But
she couldn’t (or wouldn’t, she was so in love with Jess) drag that painful
knowledge into conscious awareness. Several long, dry weeks of lying sleepless and
untouched by her lover passed before she faced the truth she’d been hiding from
herself.
    What finally triggered her awareness was a
dream. When Marcy woke up, it was after eight and her stomach hurt. Jess was
gone; he’d already left for the office. She lay there on the cool,
Egyptian-cotton sheets, recalling images from her strange dream. Bright morning
sun peeked through the chiffon curtains. When the air conditioner clicked off, she
could hear a bird trilling outside.
    In the dream, which was starkly atmospheric
and in black and white, Jess stood a great distance from her at the far end of
a vast ballroom. A crush of unfamiliar people speaking an unfamiliar language
prevented Marcy from walking across the room to join her husband. He had his
hand placed firmly on the head of a pale woman with long, white hair. She moved
under his hand, as if he were directing her every choice. Her face was classic
in its snowy beauty—impassive, icy.
    Perhaps the monochrome aspect of the dream
was somewhat misleading, but the feeling Marcy got when she looked at the two of
them was real. They were lovers. And she could do nothing about it.
    Neon flashes she could no longer ignore
finally lit up her consciousness. The truth of her situation stabbed her in the
gut. Afflicted now with this new understanding about her husband, their life
and love, she felt mentally and physically ill. She had to make herself get out
of bed and face the day. The bizarre dream imagery haunted her as she dragged
herself downstairs.
    After a quick breakfast of a poached egg on
a rice cake, Marcy wandered outside. Barefoot and grumpy, she sauntered to the end
of her tree-lined driveway for the morning paper. She was still groggy from
sleeping late and disturbed by the thoughts engendered by her dream. A warm
wind rubbed up against her skin, soothing, soft. God, she needed to be touched.
    The crunch of tires on gravel startled her.
She jumped, dropping the morning edition of the Herald.
    “Hey, gorgeous. Where you been hiding?”
    He’d pulled up behind her and parked next
to the twelve-foot hedge that hid the house from their quiet residential
street. He sat in the driveway like he belonged there. Typical of her neighborhood,
which was chock full of entitled elitists. These were people who had taken what
was not theirs yet felt damn good about it. Good enough to gloat and take more.
    Peter smiled at her from the plush, almond
interior of this year’s Porsche SUV. His oversized Rolex sparkled in the
morning light. Marcy shielded her eyes with one hand. She really needed her
shades.
    A male cardinal swooped down over the front
end of the car and up again, chirping a melodious greeting. The bird’s bright red
finery dazzled against the pale blue sky. They watched him fly off toward a
distant stand of leafy maple trees.
    “He’s in a hurry,” Peter said.
    Marcy responded before she could stop herself.
“Maybe he’s got a girlfriend waiting.”
    What a