Laundromat

"You need to check on that, sir." She told me.

I called the bank, punched in the numbers to verify my account balance.

"Your account balance is minus $2.30." The machine told me.

That was when it hit me.

I walked the 10 blocks down to the bank. They told me my checking account was cleaned out, my money market account had been closed. They showed me the signature, it was Deedee's.

I went home and made a phone call, one account was left. That was a pass through annuity I had purchased for $29,000, it was in just my name.

I sat down in shock. It struck me that I was just a 67 year old fool.

The next day I went down to the police station to file charges.

The same sad faced cop told me there was nothing they could do, Deedee was a signer on the accounts. I had put her name on the money market account so she could transfer money over for bills, she had been writing all the checks for months.

Hell, even the damn Honda was titled in her name, we had bought it so she could find work. I even took the bus and went to where she had worked, they told me she had quit one day after her last payday, she still had a small check waiting for her.

I asked for it but they wouldn't give it to me, then they asked me if I had her forwarding address.

I laughed like a maniac at that, everyone looked at me oddly. I turned and walked away.

I did get my first floor apartment, it is number four. The very same one Deedee had when we met. Just a tiny studio, I can afford that. The big wooden frame bed fills the room nicely, it is comfortable. I cashed out the remaining annuity, paid off the bad checks Deedee had written there at the last.

My $900 per month shows up from the government regular as clockwork.

Sometimes I take myself in hand, that vision of Deedee's naked body, the way she climbed up on top of me so eagerly almost completely real in my mind.

After I finish with that, I think of spotting her walking down the street. I have this vision of watching the expression on her face as my hands close down around her throat and I squeeze..and squeeze..and squeeze.

Everyone has a fantasy, I guess.

I did get a postcard. It hangs from the mirror on the big wooden frame bed.

"Sorry." Is all it says, with a happy face drawn on it. There is no signature, the postmark is somewhere in Arizona.

There is no fool like an old fool, they say.