the @baffled blog

Even though it was raining heavily, he had the wipers set on the slowest speed. He sat there, staring out the rain-streaked window at the restaurant across the street. He had been there for a good couple of hours, waiting for her to come out. He didn’t mind too much: he was making $225 an hour plus expenses to follow and photograph the every move of the very young and very attractive wife of the city’s most influential businessman and property developer. This guy suspected his wife of cheating on him, and figured the best way to find out for sure was to hire one of the city’s more obscure and reclusive private investigators.

So, here he was, sitting in his 1998 Pontiac Grand Am, smoking too many cigarettes, eating too many donuts and taking too many photographs of a young woman who was definitely getting into too much trouble.

He had been on this job for a week already, and there was no doubt in his mind that there was cheating going on. He had the photographs to prove it. Come to think of it, for an obscure and reclusive private investigator, he didn’t look too bad in some of them.

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Looking into her eyes he realized she didn’t know him anymore. She didn’t know anyone anymore. Not really. Oh, she had many friends, people who existed only in her imagination. They had been married for forty-two years, and now, she was lost to him. And he didn’t know what to do.

Try as he might, he just could not get through to her anymore. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen it coming. The doctors had told him what to expect, and he had witnessed her gradual, unmistakable and sadly inexorable decline. As for her physical health, she wasn’t doing too badly, but her mind had imprisoned her in her body. And he didn’t know what to do.

This was simply beyond him. The love of his life sat opposite him, more beautiful than ever, but it was as if she had been placed in some sort of glass case. There was a barrier there that he could not breach. And he didn’t know what to do.

So, he made sure she had a sweater on, and asked her if she would care to go for one more stroll together down by the lake.

He had always regarded Gerald as a bit of an insufferable bore. No matter how hard he tried, he kept drawing him in the squash ladder at the club. Here he was again, droning on and on: “You wouldn’t believe what happened the other day, mate. What a disappointment! I paid for a “full” massage, you know, “full”..? They gave me a hairy Bulgarian chiropractor and kept my credit card.”

This is a very true, very sad six-word snapshot into my reality (with my apologies to Mr. Hemingway):

“In truck. Windows up. Dog farts.”

She opened the door and there he stood. Even after all these years her heart still lurched at the sight of him. Over and over she had imagined what this moment would be like.

He clutched a dozen red roses in his hand. He smiled sheepishly and opened his mouth as if to say something. In her mind a string quartet had started playing something by Vivaldi, or was it Mozart? Birds were singing and her spirits lifted.

She held her breath and stepped forward, punching him hard in the face, breaking his nose. He choked back a cry as blood stained his shirt and jacket.

Before slamming the door she took a deep breath and centered herself. “You are a complete and utter bastard,” she told him. “Now piss off.”