SMOKING HOPE

Vol. 1 No. 3

houston we have a problem: part iii

​This is a five part series intended to be read in order.​
​WARNING: ADULT LANGUAGE AND SEXUAL CONTENT. DISCRETION ADVISED.

“WHAT THE HECK?” My husband questioned as he stepped back into the bathroom to turn on the light. “Traci, what are you doing? You scared the crap out of me!”

“Umm,” I responded lamely, racking my brain for some logical explanation as to why I was standing outside the bathroom door in the early hours of the morning.

“Phew,” he said, not realizing that he was still holding something. Placing his hand and that something on his chest, he told me, “I nearly had a heart attack. What are you doing up anyway?”

Time

seemed

to slow down.

I tilted my head as if seeing it from another angle would change it. My need to come up with a valid explanation of what I was doing up at this insane hour vanished. Rage engulfed me as an image of a scantily clad model seared into my brain.

I turned the tables on him. “What. Is. That?”

“What is what?”

“THAT!” I screamed pointing to the magazine in his hand.

The color drained from his face. He had forgotten that he was holding anything. I snatched the magazine away before he could utter another syllable and stormed into the living room. “Traci, it's nothing. Wait,” he tried.

I turned on the light on the end table beside the couch and stood with my back to him as I explored what he had deemed as “nothing.” I was breathing hard and my fingers were tightly clenched, gripping the sides of the magazine. It was a Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog full of women in sexy negligees and provocative shoes. As I hastily flipped through the pages, my anger intensified. “Where did you get this?”

“What?” he played dumb.

I turned toward him with insane fury in my eyes. “THIS” I screamed shaking the catalog in his face. “Where did you get this?”

“I uh … it uh … I mean ... let’s sit down and talk about this.”

“Answer the question! Where did you get this?”

“It came in the mail,” he admitted, avoiding eye contact and hanging his head in shame. I flipped the catalog over to inspect it and, sure enough, it was addressed to me at our current address. I had never ordered anything from this store, so the fact that I was receiving their magazine was insane. Where did they get my name and address? It wasn’t some random mailing. It wasn’t addressed to Current Resident.

No. It was addressed to me, Traci, wife of the man I thought was honest and trustworthy; wife of the man I had been married to for less than six months; a college student who hadn’t even had this address for a full year.

I couldn’t even comprehend why my husband would request this catalog under my name right now. All I could think about was that he had confiscated it when it came in the mail and hidden it from me to use for his own pleasure.

I was furious!

I tried to push my way past him, but he grabbed my arm, restraining me.

“Get your filthy hands off me,” I spewed with as much vehemence as I could muster.

“Wait,” he tried.

“I SAID, get your effing hands off me. NOW!” He must have seen something in my eyes which indicated I wasn’t kidding. He released his grip, and I stormed past him. I rounded the corner into the bedroom and pulled the door shut with as much force as I could.

Since there wasn’t a lock on the door, I marched over to our bed, grabbed his pillow, returned to the door, opened it and threw it into the hallway. “You can sleep on the couch tonight,” I ordered, and slammed the door again.