Knew he was trouble long before they met, married, predictably divorced. Supposed he was clean then, save for the blue bulge of knotted veins long accustomed to the addict’s needle. Remembered his own simpering mother warning beware, he’d been caught stealing women’s undergarments from neighboring clothes lines while yet in tender years.
Somehow it was easier to put this out of mind just like she had done time and again – before this.
Her sister once quipped that she’d proclaimed their mother Cleopatra, queen of de-Nial. It seemed funny at the time – how could she fail to grasp her own state of regress every time she bumped up against her intuition? And yet, here it was. Coming home for lunch was something she was inexplicably drawn to do.
How could she have known she would discover him, gussied up in tacky female attire right down to white cotton brassiere stuffed with ribbed crew socks, vacuuming the living room floor?