The Art of Divorce

The comparisons between him and Raphe were not only inevitable, but clear.

Smith just fucked me, and not even that well. To Smith I was something he could use as he wished, because he had paid for me. No, he didn't pay me to fuck him; but he gave me things and hinted at a life outside of work. The life I'd always thought I wanted. He never told me he liked me, let alone that he loved me. In retrospect, I realized that he didn't love me. He expended time and effort on me because like his car or his watch, or any of his other possessions, I was the best available at the time that he could afford. I reminded me of one of those things you see on the internet, the men's version of the vibrator. I was his pocket pussy, only I was a walking talking, breathing one. Instead of paying 10,000 dollars for a lifelike sex doll, Smith was paying more than that for his own sex doll, me.

That morning was just another example of it. Our, or should I call it "his" sex life was nothing more than us going to a motel, or lately it had been his office, he'd pull up my skirt or dress (I could only wear skirts and dresses, I wasn't allowed pants) he'd stick it in me, pump me 7 or 8 times then grunt and squirt, done. I always expected him to say "get out bitch," or hand me 5 dollars after we were done, and I was getting sick of it. I no longer felt like myself. I was used to being sought after, and appreciated. I was used to being loved. I was used to Raphe, damn it I missed him.

It was then that I realized that after all of our lives, after all of that time; that I actually did love Raphe, far more than I wanted to admit. I had simply taken him for granted, because he had always been there for me in any way that I needed him.

I missed his puppy dog eyes, every time he looked at me. The way he would do literally anything I asked him to. I missed, the way that he put me first, even over his own needs. I remember waking up late, one morning when I had an interview, I called Raphe and told him that my clothes weren't ready. He came home from work, made me breakfast and ironed my clothes, while I showered and put on my make up. Smith would never do anything like that for me. I didn't even know where Smith lived. How could I have been that dumb? My daddy had obviously raised one stupid child.

Those were the thoughts going through my mind as Smith just simply stuck his fingers in my pussy. He didn't kiss me, or touch me; he just pulled up my skirt, stuck his fingers in my panties, found the hole and stuck his finger in. It hurt, he didn't even lick them first for lubrication, and since I wasn't aroused, I wasn't making any of my own. When I moaned it was from pain not from being turned on, I guess he didn't know the difference, or just didn't care. I wanted to yell out "My pussy tastes really good, just ask Raphe," but I didn't dare. He barely even shut the door and didn't lock it. It was as if he didn't care if we got caught. I was his property, he could do whatever he wanted to me, whenever he wanted and he wanted people to know it.

I had been trying all week to talk to Raphe. He wouldn't talk to me at all. He knows that I need a lot of sleep (he should, know it because he's been taking care of me for so many years) he always comes in long after I'm asleep, and leaves well before I'm awake.

Sometimes he doesn't even sleep in the same bed with me. I can't believe we've gone so long without making love. I was even more certain now, that Raphe not only knew about Smith and me, but had conceded me to Smith. From the way that he looked at me now, he tried to hide it, but his puppy dog eyes and expressions of unending love were gone.

Sometimes from across the room when I caught him looking at me, all I saw in his eyes was disgust. Raphe had always been one of those gentle hearted, "good ol' boys," he didn't have a harsh word to say about any one. Now he always had a much harsher expression on his face; a cynicism that hadn't always been there. I knew that this was my fault. I had taken a good thing, a good man and ruined him.

I know that most of you won't believe this, because the picture painted of me so far makes me seem like a heartless, cheating, cold hearted snake of a bitch; but I swear to you that I was right then and there, getting ready to tell Smith to get his 50 year old, cold fish,wrinkled, liver spotted, arthritic hand, out of my husband's pussy, when Raphe walked in and everything changed.

I was in so much shock, that I don't remember any of the words that were said. I remember Smith yanking his fingers out of me and saying something to Raphe.

I remember sitting there on the desk with my legs open, so I jumped down and closed them. I know I said something really stupid, and I remember Raphe, with pain etched on his face, fighting a battle to retain his control and then turning to leave. I remember as Raphe did turn to leave he turned back and hit Smith harder than I could even imagine. I still remember Smith flying over the desk leaving a trail of blood and just lying there, crying. I remember chasing Raphe, trying to get him to talk to me, so I could tell him how I felt. I needed to tell him that I was wrong, that we could fix this. I would do anything he wanted, live anyway he wanted, but it was too late he was gone. Had Rape actually said the words, "She's all yours?"

I went back into the room to get my keys and found Smith still lying there whimpering.

"Is he gone?" he asked, with obvious fear on his face.

Smith looked as if it hurt, to talk. His nose was swollen badly, obviously broken.

I helped him to his feet and told him to call his doctor. I drove him to his doctor's office and waited while they examined him. I sat there while Smith lied to his doctor. He told his doctor that he had walked into a door that he thought was unlocked, but it wasn't. When the doctor looked at Smith, he looked as if he didn't believe him. Smith then came up with lie number 2; he told the doctor that he'd taken up boxing. The doctor told Smith that at his age he should have picked a different sport. He gave Smith an injection to numb the area, and set his nose. This involved a lot of screaming, which I thought still wasn't enough for the pain that Smith had caused Raphe and I. He gave me a prescription for more pain meds for Smith, and I drove him back to the office. It seemed strange under the circumstances that Smith wouldn't let me drive him home, but I didn't have time to think about it. I knew that Raphe would eventually go home and I needed to be there when he did.

I was in luck; I got there before he did. I could tell because everything, including

All of Raphe's things were still there. I paced the floors thinking of exactly what I would say to him. I counted on years of him doing exactly what I wanted him to, to get him to listen to me. I was willing to do, to give him anything he wanted, just to forgive me.

Thank God for Ford trucks, I heard that truck pull up even before it got to our drive way. I ran out to meet him, which was probably a mistake. Raphe looked up and saw me and immediately backed out of the driveway. H didn't even slow down as I chased him down the road.

I went back into the house and just started crying, this wasn't characteristic of me. As I've said before my daddy raised me to do great things, I was a driven success oriented person, not some whiney little mouse. But in this case, I thought of everything I'd done all my life, and I couldn't see anything great that It had gotten me. If Raphe and I were to save our money and be careful, he could have a successful contracting business, and I could be great in business. Maybe we'd be rich or at least well off, but in the end, the greatest thing we had going for us, was each other. When old people, be they rich or poor looked back on their lives, the things they talked about the most weren't the things they had, or the things they'd bought. They talked about the things they'd done and the people they'd done them with. In trying to grab for myself the life that I thought I wanted, I had almost given up the person that sharing that life with would've meant the most.

The people that Smith had introduced me to, the rich and important people, they hadn't really accepted me as one of them, as an equal, they had accepted me as Smith's employee. I didn't think any of them men or women would have recognized me again if they fell over me. Maybe the men might've recognized my tits, they spent enough time talking to them, and staring at them. So why did I need them? I didn't, what I did need was to talk to Raphe so I could start getting our lives back together.

I looked at the clock, over 2 hours had passed, and I couldn't believe that I'd spent that much time, crying in my beer. I needed to figure out a plan to get my man back.

My cell phone started ringing; I picked it up, while I looked into the mirror.

I looked like shit; my make up had run down my face, giving me a clown-like appearance. If anyone could see me like this they'd wonder what had happened to me. I was supposed to be pretty. If they saw me like this they'd be joking about it forever. The face that launched a thousand quips.

"Hello" I said, my voice giving a strength and determination that I didn't feel.

"Kathleen, where are you?"

I'm at home where do you think I am?" I replied.

It was Smith, of course.

"We have problems, something has happened to Amanda" he said

"I'll be right there" I said into the phone. This would give me the chance I needed to quit working for Smith. I wanted to do it in person, I wanted be professional about it. I also wanted to keep any emotional involvement out of it. I supposed that he'd want the same thing. To keep this all quiet. After all he had his reputation to look out for, as well as the fact that being in an affair with a married subordinate couldn't be good for his career.

When I got to the office, it was all I could do to keep from laughing. If I'd thought that I looked like a clown with the make up running down my face, at least I was able to wash my face, and re-apply the make up. Smith looked far worse. His nose had swollen up so much that it looked like he had a balloon sticking out of his face. His cheeks were also swollen, and his whole face was red. In the hope of maintaining professional decorum, I resisted my urge to laugh.

"What's wrong with Ms. Anderson?" I asked.

"Her personal manager called me and told me something about some ruffian destroying some of her pieces," said Smith.

"I called her before I called you, and she said that the matter had been settled to her satisfaction, and everything is fine," he said.

"If everything is fine, why the hell did you have me come over here?" I snapped.

"I have a marriage that is on life support."

"Which is why you should be here," he said.

"If you want to get him back, though I can't imagine why you would, this is what you need to do," he told me.

"You need to threaten to divorce him. Really scare the hell out of him, and make him come crawling back to you. If you present a strong front, fool him into thinking that we're going to be together then he'll come, running back with his tail between his legs. Then you can dictate the terms of your marriage, and not the other way around." he said.

In my weakened emotional state what he said made sense. I didn't even notice that he'd said, fool him into thinking that we'd be together.

"We need above all, to keep this quiet until the show is over," he said.

"If this show goes well, I'm on my way higher up the ladder and you'll be with me," he continued.

"But shouldn't I get a lawyer?" I asked weakly.

"Heavens no," he said as if in shock.

His reaction to that question alone should have set off warning bells, but it didn't.

"We need to keep this quiet," he said.

"And don't worry, he can't do anything either, he has no proof of anything. He has only what he saw, or thinks he saw. And if he comes up with any accusations, I'll simply charge him with assault and use you as a witness to make him drop any divorce proceedings," he said confidently.

"Then after the show is over and that little French bitch, is on her way out of the country, the 3 of us will sit down and discuss this calmly. I'm sure we can come to terms one way or another," he said.

Raphe

Once I'd had time to calm down, I realized the enormity of what my anger had gotten me into. We were sitting in lounge chairs out on the deck facing each other. Amanda amazingly enough was gently rubbing my temples with her fingers. She was doing some kind of a head massage. It felt wonderful, and I didn't want her to ever stop.

"Amanda I'm really sorry," I said.

"Sshhhhhhhh," she replied.

"If it takes me forever, I'll pay you back," I said.

"Shhhhhhhhh."

"Any arrangement you can think of," I said seriously.

Amanda looked into my eye at that point; I swear I thought she was going to kiss me.

There came a timid little knocking at the door, followed by a very feminine voice.

"Oh there you are sweetie. I was wondering where you were," he said.

In the doorway staring at us and smiling was the largest man I had ever seen, and probably the gayest.

He approached us, and Amanda rose and hugged him, hard. Boy was I jealous.

"Victor Wang, meet Raphe Jenkins," she said happily.

"Now I know why you've been hiding," said Victor. As he spoke he looked at me, and I had the urge to put on more clothes, even though I was fully dressed.

"So what do you have to show me?" he asked, "Show me something new and exciting and brilliant." he pronounced it, "Berrrrillleeeeannnnt!"

Amanda and Victor went into the great room, and looked at her work. I followed them and watched, sensing that Amanda and I still had things to discuss. He went quietly from painting to painting, and looked them up and down; he seemed to give no more than a cursory glance at each one.

"Hmm," he said, looking quickly at a landscape.

"Ah," he said, looking at what I thought, was a beautiful painting of 2 small children.

"Well," he said, "You painted em."

He had kind of a snarky expression on his face. The expression alone told me that he didn't like any of them.

"What do you think?" asked Amanda.

"Well honey, as I said you painted em; that alone will bring you a bunch of money from the rich idiots who think they can own art."

"But," said Amanda

"But, between us honey, just looking at them bores the shit out of me; and not in a good way." He paused for a moment and then began speaking again.

"It's kind of like when old rock stars can't come up with anything new and they put out a greatest hits album, sometimes when they haven't even had any greatest hits. Kind of like a dash for cash, before they settle down and become music teachers," he added.

"Have you got anything else?" he asked in a dubious voice, "Anything new and original?"

"Well I was working on a set of character studies, but they've been irreparably damaged and will probably not be recovered," said Amanda timidly.

"Any chance of you just re-doing them?" he asked.

"Well if you look at them, I'll think about it but, no I think the subject matter is too painful on a personal level," she said.

If I hadn't realized that I was falling in love with Amanda before, it became obvious now. This guy was some kind of art critic, who, though he was supposed to be her friend had told her, pretty much what she told me. He thought the work she'd brought with her from France sucked. Oh they were good paintings and would sell for thousands of dollars, but they would do nothing to advance her reputation as an artist. Even knowing this, she was nearly refusing to repaint the works upstairs for fear of hurting me. And even as she said it, her eyes locked with mine.

"If you like them, if you think they're good, she'll redo them," I said quietly.

"Well sugar let's take a look," he said loudly.

As he passed his bulk through us, he looked at both of us in turn, and then held his hands up between us as if cutting, or karate chopping something.

Amanda and I looked at each other, we were both puzzled. She shrugged her shoulders in the universal "I don't know what the hell that meant," gesture.

We followed his bulky figure up the stairs, with Amanda pointing the way to the studio as we reached the top.

Victor stepped into the room and looked at the carnage that was left from my rampage. He looked very slowly at the room, pausing and staring intently at certain items; then he backed up nearly knocking us out of the room. He shook his head negatively and looked at me. I sheepishly looked at my feet with my hands jammed firmly into my pockets.

"Get the fuck outta here!" he said in a high pitched tone that rose as he spoke.

"Why didn't you show me this first?" he asked excitedly.

"Amanda you have to find a way to duplicate this room in its entirety," he yammered excitedly.

"The rage, the raw emotion, the angst, just the pain," he practically screamed.

The only pain I understood was the headache his voice was giving me.

"This is what you've needed girl, this is it! Obviously you had something to do with this," he said pointing at me.

"You're not hitting her are you?" he asked.

"Of course not," I snapped.

"Why would you ever think that?" asked Amanda

"Well sweetie, the tension between the two of you is so thick, you can touch it," he said, "So I thought that maybe, you'd had a fight, and this was the result of it."

"Make sure you do your next set of paintings after a round of make up sex!"

"Can I get a crew over here to start taking pictures for my article, or will you give me exclusive access before the show?" he asked excitedly.

"Uhm, before the show," said Amanda, "We have things to discuss and to work out." Victor waved at us and headed for the door mumbling loudly as he left.

Amanda just stared at me, while I stood there like a deer caught in the headlights.

I didn't understand anything that was going on and I was hoping she'd explain it to me. But in typical Amanda fashion she merely looked at me and then went very carefully back into the room, and examined everything. Every detail of the room fell under her scrutiny. Then she dashed out telling me not to move. She ran into the jungle that she called her bedroom, then, I heard things flying around the room, while her voice excitedly swore in a mixture of English and French.

She emerged a few moments later with a very sophisticated looking camera. Maybe it wasn't that great, but what do I know about cameras? She paused right in front of me, stretched up onto her toes and kissed me. She kissed me right on the lips, I was shocked. Other than my mother, Amanda was only the 2nd woman to ever kiss me. It was only a brief peck, but it spoke volumes for what could possibly follow. The events of the past few moments had caused all of my problems and pain to be temporarily forgotten.

I watched as she took photos of first the entire room from nearly every angle imaginable. Then she went back and took photos of every painting from every angle imaginable. She was making little cooing sounds as she worked. Then she put the camera down and started taking measurements of the rooms dimensions, the placements of the windows, she even pulled out a gizmo that measured the intensity and direction of the light in the room. She held up one tiny but determined finger, to hold me in place, so I didn't move. She pulled out her cell phone and punched in some numbers. When the connection was made, she started speaking in rapid fire French to whom-ever was on the other end, then she waited. When she began speaking again it was in English.

"No I cannot talk to him about this, and it must be done immediately," she said.

"I am sending you pictures in the next few moments. I will also send measurements, the room must be duplicated in its entirety exactly as is," she said.