The Art of Divorce

Raphe

I got out of my truck, and pulled two bags after me. I walked up to the door of the dark apartment and juggled the bags and my keys. I turned on the lights and put the bags down on the table. I gently knocked on the door, leading to the upper still hidden level of the apartment. Almost instantly it opened as if she'd been waiting for me.

"I was not sure you would return," she said.

"I wasn't sure you'd open the door again, or even still be here," I replied.

"I have to trust you," she said stepping into the kitchen.

"What have you here?" she asked.

"Well I don't know what you normally eat for breakfast? Or what you've been eating while you're hiding out here. But I brought you this," I said pointing to one of the bags.

She opened the bag and smiled. I'd brought her a double sized Mocha Latte, and a croissant with a selection of toppings she could add.

She nearly doubled up in laughter, and looked in the other bag. She looked dubiously at my Breakfast McClowny, as if it would leap off the plate and bite her. She also smiled when she smelled my strong black coffee.

The Breakfast McClowny was a totally American invention. It consisted of one of those synthetic egg patties, four strips of bacon, American cheese, and a sausage patty, all crammed between the halves of a sliced English muffin. Most people got fatter, just looking at one. Eating one was known to completely harden the arteries and clog them full of greasy fat deposits. The breakfast McClowny, was the reason America was so damned fat. Burger Queen had nothing like the Breakfast McClowny.

She shook her head as she gazed in wonder at the decadent sandwich. Then she ran around the kitchen turning the lights on and setting up plates as she had the night before. She for some reason got out knives and forks, and 2 cups. Then she ran back upstairs and came down with a small bottle of orange juice. She got glasses out of the cabinet as I sat in wonder.

As she was doing all of this running around, I took time to really look at her. Seeing her clearly in the light now, brought a couple of things into sharp focus. One was that this was a truly beautiful woman.

Not in that Las Vegas, California, blonde silicone bimbettes style. She was just a truly beautiful woman. She was the type of woman that, as she aged and grew lines in her face, and maybe sagged a bit here and there; would never have to worry about it, because all of these supposed flaws, would add character to her face. Instead of serving as the signal to head to the nearest plastic surgeon for Botox, the wrinkles and imperfections would add to her beauty. From the cascading curls to the wide spaced eyes and upturned nose; and especially her lips and mouth, this was a true beauty. I could spend hours describing her smile, the impish way that one side turned up and the other slightly down at the same time. Or the way she crinkled up her lips to express, both joy and confusion, within heartbeats of each other.

Though tiny, she was also very proportionate. Her proportions, created the illusion of size where there was none. Her breasts, when measured in terms of volume, were no where near Kathy's but when placed on her tiny frame appeared larger. I've always heard about French women's incredible legs and the reasons for them. I've heard it's because they walk everywhere instead of driving, or from walking up the stairs of the Eiffel tower, but I had never seen legs like those anywhere. And at the top where they met, was the most perfect ass I'd ever seen. I have heard about men who have a foot fetish, hell I've even seen videos of guys jacking off between a woman's feet. Until this moment I had never even considered the feet as an object of sexuality. But I could understand it now.

My Kathy would have seemed as big and ungainly as a cow, standing next to this woman. And dressed up in fancy clothes, it would not even be close.

Again I marveled as she took the items I'd presented and turned them into a feast instead of a meal, and seemingly enjoyed doing it. As we sat down across from each other, she quickly bowed her head for a few scant seconds and then raised it, smiled and began stuffing food down her throat with a gusto that had to be seen to be believed.

I looked at my plate; she had destroyed my Breakfast McClowny. She'd cut it in half and separated the components into 2 breakfasts. We both had a couple of slices of bacon, half of a sausage, and egg patty, a half of an English muffin that she'd spread jam on. We also each had a small glass of juice, and a cup of my black coffee.

"I hate that sweet, fake coffee you brought me," she said, "It tastes like sheet, why do you all drink it?"

"I don't drink it" I said, "But people here, think that you drink it like that in Europe."

"I need strong black coffee when I work," she said as she bit through a slice of bacon.

She reached for one of my pieces of bacon, and my hand reached out to stop her.

As our hands touched, an electric feeling went through me at the contact.

She smiled again and then playfully took my bacon. "We'll share it," she said with mischief in her eyes.

"Wait," I asked "Why are we sharing my bacon?"

"Because Raphe Jenkins, I already ate mine," she smiled.

I had never heard my name sound so sexy before. When she said Raphe Jenkins, I knew why my mom had given me that name. When she said Jenkins, it came out like jean-cans; and my dick just got harder than a bar of steel.

The only woman I had ever been with in my entire life was Kathy, and she'd never affected me like this. The thought of Kathy brought my mood down again, and Amana noticed.

It felt really strange, first I get a hard on from some French artist simply saying my name; meanwhile the thought of some half bald 50 year old asshole's dick, in my wife's mouth, made me want to gag every time I saw her or thought about her.

"So what will you do while I work today, Rape Jenkins?" she asked.

"I'm going to frame out the enclosures, on the deck, so you can work inside and I won't disturb you" I said.

"Why do you not work on the racks you have started in the great room? That way we could talk while we work," she said.

"That would be fine" I said, surprised.

I'd always imagined that artists would be temperamental and standoffish, like that fuck head Smith.

Amanda seemed so grounded and down to earth, that it was hard to imagine her as a famous artist.

I went out to my truck and got my tool belt and tool box. I brought the things I'd need into the living room. As I started to work I noticed that Amanda had already got a canvas from somewhere and was hurriedly adding shapes to the blank page with a small brush. It was fascinating and I thought I could watch her forever. She seemed to alternate between very deliberate and carefully measured strokes, and furious haphazard ones. Again it was not the behavior or the style I'd expect from a famous artist. I think the thing I loved watching the most though was the way her butt jiggled as she painted.

I was afraid to start my saw, I thought the noise might distract or startle her. When I saw her sit down in front of her canvas and look at it, I raised my hand and pointed towards the saw. She smiled and nodded that it was OK. She came over and watched me line up the pieces and then cut through them.

We started to talk and she told me why she was here early. It seems that she didn't like any of the pieces she'd done for the show. They were just more of the same thing she'd already done. She didn't think they were inspired, and felt like she was just selling out. The buyers and collectors would of course be happy because she'd panted a lot of things that looked like they were "Amanda Anderson" paintings, but she felt as if she should be breaking new ground, and continuing to explore her art. So she'd come in early to review her new pieces and try and do something different, hoping that the change in location, culture and environment, would set her creative juices flowing.

I in turn told her about my sham of a marriage. I left out the names, unsure of how she'd handle finding out that her agent was screwing my wife. She was very sympathetic. It was actually cathartic for me to get it out. I hadn't told anyone about my situation except for the lawyer and the PI.

As afternoon rolled around, we went out to eat. We found a nice little restaurant down by the river. As good as it was, I couldn't handle another Burger Queen meal for a while.

Amanda as I expected was great company, she made me laugh, and pointed out several of the differences between life in our country and in hers.

So it went for the next few weeks, I spent all of my days in the apartment with Amanda, turning it into the perfect studio for an artist. At night I arrived home barely in time to slip into bed and then get up before Kathy, and get out again first thing in the morning. The few times we did actually run into each other were hellish. With Kathy asserting that we need to talk, and me claiming to be too busy or too tired.

Finally 2 weeks before Amanda's show, she "officially" arrived in town. She told Smith after seeing it that she loved the apartment and the rack system and outdoor enclosures for her work. She also requested that the craftsman responsible for the work be present, because there were changes and ideas she had, that she would like handled by him as well.

Smith told her he'd see to it.

I was happy about this development because it meant that I'd get to spend more time with Amanda, and that we'd be able to go places without worrying about someone recognizing her. Little did I know that my little bubble of happiness was about to burst.

I got a call from Smith requesting that I meet him in his office. I knew what that was about already. He was going to ask me to do the work that Amanda had requested,

The thing I wasn't expecting was that when I got there early, I walked in on Smith, with his hand up Kathy's dress inside her panties. Even though I had DVD's and pictures of them together, seeing it right there in front of me, was different. I'd really thought that all of my emotions on the subject of the two of them were contained. It felt though as if someone had just ripped my stomach out through my throat. Smith had this look of lust on his face that was beyond description. Kathy looked as if she was just putting up with it.

When Smith finally noticed me standing there he snatched his hand out so fast that I thought he'd break his elbow. And Kathy immediately started with the classic line,"Raphe, it isn't what you think."

"Let me guess, Kath," I said, "Smith's hand is frostbitten by your icy demeanor, so he had to stick it in your pussy to warm it up."

"It's just a medical emergency, and you didn't mean to break your husband's heart."

"Come now old man, there's no need to be trite about this," said Smith.

It was the wrong thing to do, because at that point, I crossed the room and busted Smith in the face. There was a sickening crack, almost a popping sound as my fist contacted his nose. He fell over the desk and landed in a heap behind it. I started to go around the desk after him but stopped short. Neither of them was worth it.

"I told you if you ever touched her, I'd bust your ass," I hurled at Smith, "She's all yours."

He was curled up behind the desk holding his nose and crying.

"Raphe wait," yelled Kathy, following me out of the office, "We can fix this, it doesn't mean anything."

I got into my truck and just drove away. I spent the next hour or so just driving around aimlessly. I had to get myself together, but I couldn't. I decided to do what the guys on TV always did in similar situations; you know go home and pack as much of my stuff as I can carry, then check into a motel. It didn't work, as soon as I pulled up the bitch came towards me. I put the truck into reverse and pulled back out onto the road with her running after me screaming.

I decided that my best bet would be to just go do something I still felt good about. I needed an activity that would let me think while I did it. I also didn't want to check into a motel yet because with Smith's money it wouldn't take him long to track me down. So I'd check into a motel just before I went to sleep and check out as soon I woke up. If I used a different place each night, they would have a lot of trouble tracking me.

Now that I knew, and they knew I knew, I needed to file first, so I called my lawyer and told him to make sure the papers were ready.

Then I drove over to Amanda's apartment to work. When she opened the door, and smiled, it was like the sun coming out after a long, long rainy night. Her infectious good mood almost took me away from all of it.

"I was wondering when you'd get here," she said brightly, "You are late."

"Come and see what we have to eat," she said.

That was the thing about Amanda; perhaps it was a European, or even a French trait. She was all about comfort. Eat, drink and be merry, no stress, the problems will work themselves out.

She had a breakfast spread that looked like it was waiting for a king. There were all sorts of muffins, and biscuits, coffees, teas, and juices, butters in differing flavors, jams and jellies, and spreads, cold cuts, bacon, sausages and ham. There were bowls of different types of fruits and melons, it was bizarre. If this was what she was used to, she must still be laughing at sharing my Burger Queen meals with me.

"What is all of this for?" I asked

"All of this is for us," she said smiling.

"I called the agency, and told them I would need breakfast for 2. Come we eat, then you, tell me what has you so angry."

"No," I said, "I don't want to talk about it, I just want to forget."

"Okay," she said, setting her mouth in that little pout she got sometimes.

"Then we just eat!"

As she said this she nodded her head, one time as if she had just settled a major dispute, it was adorable.

With only 5 days left before the show, Amanda had a lot of work to do to get her new pieces ready. Besides that she had several sketches she was doing, that might or might not make the show. She still hadn't decided on a theme for the show. Sometimes she didn't have one, she simply showed off her latest works, and offered them for sale through a gallery or broker. Her last show, had taken in over 600 thousand dollars, with the agency getting thirty percent and other fees she'd netted about 290 thousand after taxes. Her goal was to make a couple of million dollars and then retire. Part of the problem she had was, she just couldn't resist traveling and buying things. It was as if she was looking for something, but she didn't know what it was.

So after eating, Amanda made me promise to finish the racks in the smaller room upstairs that she used for working. The great room, as she called the living room would be used for an impromptu preview, for some of the gallery owners and art critics before the show. Amanda would work in the great room, giving final touches to her finished or almost finished pieces in the great room, while I gave her places to hang or position the things she was working on now.

I got my tool belt from the truck, and climbed the stairs. The first room I looked into, was not the studio, it was her bedroom. I don't know what I was expecting but this wasn't it. Kathy always had everything arranged neatly, and made sure I kept it that way.

All of her cosmetics and clothes were, lined up and organized according to item and color so she could put together outfits at the drop of a hat. Amanda's room in comparison was chaos. It looked more like a teenaged girl's room. There were things strewn all over everywhere. On the desk, a computer with a drawing program was turned on. A laptop with another graphics program running was on the bed, forgotten. The radio was on, and clothing and socks and shoes and panties and bras, and notebooks, and random sheets and scraps of paper were everywhere. I wondered how she ever found anything in the mess, but then it hit me. This randomness was like her, it hinted at all kinds of possibilities. It said that if you looked for it, you could find anything, but you had to commit yourself and look. It said don't count on things just being the way you wanted them to. It said don't make plans, just live.

I closed the door and smiled for the first time that day, and went in search of the studio. I found it a few minutes later and wished that I hadn't, surprise, shock, and pain all vied for supremacy in my consciousness. The potent mixture of emotions brewed like soup in a kettle, and exploded out of me as rage. For the 2nd time that day I went off.

Amanda had a nearly photographic memory for details, she had been doing character studies of the faces and people she found interesting. There was a large canvas of the homeless woman, we had seen in the park. The guy from the drive-thru window at Burger Queen was there, in all of his greasy pimple faced teenaged glory. There were a couple of me as well, and she obviously saw me, in a different light than reality did. But then there were several of Smith, and of Kathy. And there was another painting of Smith and Kathy together. I wondered when she had seen them.

Did Amanda know about them? Did she know who they were? Maybe she'd been part of this whole thing from the start.

Seeing those images just brought the scene from earlier this morning back me in all of its intensity. A red haze covered my vision and I just reacted. Amanda worked sometimes in water colors and there were large jars of paint in many different colors that she used for mixing her paints. I grabbed a full can of paint and threw it across the room where it exploded against the large canvas, splashing paint all over a couple of pictures of that smirking and snarky bastard, Smith. Without even thinking about it I screamed in rage and unloaded yet another can of paint against Smith and one against the pictures of my unfaithful wife.

By this time Amanda had come running up the stairs to see what was going on, there was a man with her, he was horrified. Amanda took one look at what I had done and reacted decisively. She stepped into the room and handed me another can of paint, and then pointed at the still untouched painting of Smith and Kathy together. Then she nodded and stepped back. I opened the can and this time more deliberately splashed the paint on the canvass.

Then Amanda started giving me smaller cans of paint and I just threw them, ad hoc, towards the paintings until I couldn't lift any more. I fell to my knees completely drained. Amanda sat down next to me, rubbing my head and shoulders.

"This is what you are so sad about, is it not?"

I nodded my head, I couldn't face her. At this point the little man recovered from his shock and began yelling at me.

"Do you know what you have done?" he yelled.

"Each of those paintings was worth probably 20,000 dollars. You'll spend the rest of your life paying for them" he screamed, "Oh, and you can't get away with this, the security system has video of you doing it. Just wait until I get you in court."

"You may not even be able to start paying her until you get out of jail," the man was furious.

"Why are you so angry?" Amanda asked him calmly.

"These are my paintings, not yours," she said, "There will be no court, no charges, and no payment."

"And if your only concern is your commission, perhaps we can arrange it so you don't have to worry about receiving compensation for any of my work in the future," she continued.

"Perhaps you did not notice that, in the end I helped him throw the paint."

"But I was just," began the little man.

"You were just leaving," finished Amanda.

Kathy

This part of my, of our story is, as my daddy always said, where the rubber meets the road. When Raphe walked in and found Smith's hand in my pussy, I felt like my life had ended. Lately Smith had been using me more and more, but it was always the same.