Marina tolerated his infidelities. His wandering eye, she called it. She shielded the kids from the worst and thanked her good fortune for their big house in Wishburn Heights. There were women who had it far harder. She had tennis and soirées and all sorts of charity work. And she admired him. He’d started with nothing and achieved great things, and she was still the one he chose to come home to.
He didn’t bother to hide much. So the blow out on the credit account was a shock. Five and a half grand to a garage in the next state. It got her thinking about things. About getting older. About what she deserved.
She was washing dishes, days later, when tears splashed into the sink. She sat down with a brandy but the empty crying continued. It scared her—so unexpected, so unlike her. She was strong, goddamit. She could handle it.
She followed him the next day, sat outside his office until nearly twelve. A leggy blonde, all magazine beauty, pulled up in a convertible with interstate plates. Joel climbed in and held her in an extended kiss.
Marina tailed them at a distance to a shack down the coast. Joel and his girlfriend went inside. Marina dialled directory. ‘I need concrete, please. To Lavender Bay.’
small stories about love 