So, where was I? Oh, yeah. The confrontation.
We all sat down to dinner. Six of us. Three couples. I waited for the right time. About midway through the meal, when everybody was nice and comfy, I looked at EW and blurted out what I'd heard.
I probably could have toned down my langauge a bit, but I didn't. I wanted to shock. And shock I did. Conversation stopped. Eating stopped. Everything stopped. She looked like I'd just stuck a fork in her butt. And EW. . . EW looked like his eyes might pop out of his head and roll across the table.
At first he tried to deny it, and she had the nerve to look insulted. Somebody else at the table suggested I'd chosen the wrong time to bring the subject up. Nope. Right time. Right place. Right accusation.
I left the restaurant that night, filed for divorce the next day, and here I am. I found a cute little apartment in Atlanta -- thank god I had a job. And savings. And now I have a man-free life.
And I'm happy.
Maybe happy's too strong a word. I'm content. I don't have to fight for the TV remote. There's nobody sprawled on my couch in his shorts, farting and watching the ball game. I don't have to listen to lies. No laundry to do but my own. If there's a mess to clean, it's because I left it.
And I have no trouble finding the laundry hamper. What is it about men and hampers? You can have a hamper, wide open, just waiting for dirty clothes, and a man will throw his stinky socks on the floor next to it.
Ha! No more stinky socks. Not for this chick. I'm free.
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