It was December of 2007 when I decided to steal Kelley’s wife. This was before I knew that him and I would transform Sawyer Motors into the most successful Ford dealership in New Hampshire, and I was still just a salesman at the time. Marissa wore a red dress to our company Christmas party, and her short blonde curls showed off her classic beauty. When she approached me, I tried to act like I didn’t know who she was.
“Greg Bonner,” I said, reaching out my right hand, “And you are?”
She smiled coyly, looking down at her dry martini. “Two fish are in a tank, one turns to the other and says ‘Do you know how to drive this thing?’” She broke into a cat-like smile as she looked up at me. Forty-five minutes later we had talked about India, the Kansas City Royals, and ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’, and I was sure that we were in love.
Five months later, my phone rang at the office.
“Greg Bonner at Sawyer Motors,” I answered.
“Hey, Sparkleboy,” Marissa whispered, “Are we all set?”
“Of course,” I replied. “Remember, 34 Turtleback Road. There should still be a ‘Sold’ sign out front. The key is under the wooden sailboat on the front porch. Kelley’s still here, but you should probably leave soon. He’s been ducking out early lately.”
“Bastard,” she said, “Okay, I’ll get going then.” She paused for a second. “Two hats are sitting on a hat rack, when one turns to the other and says ‘You stay here, I’ll go on a-head.’”
“Your delivery is getting better. I’ll see you soon, Mariss” I said, and as usual she hung up without saying any sort of a goodbye.
Kelley stood in my office just a few minutes later, hands in his Khaki pockets, his handsome face and short brown hair looking All-American as ever. He had played football at Delaware, which may not have been Notre Dame but still topped my spot on an intramural basketball team at Endicott.
“Got anything planned for this weekend?” the should-be Senator asked me.
“Not really,” I lied, while looking at my reflection in his shoes. “Just some wine and old movies. Yourself?”
“Oh you know, gotta clean the gutters and trim the hedges. Never a dull moment at 40 Ruthellen Way,” he said as he turned and walked out of my office, leaving the door open behind him.
He always referred to his home like that, flaunting his perfect address like he had invented it or something. Even so, there was no denying the purity of it. It was almost like it pardoned him of all his sins: his strip club visits, his fondness of reality television, even his inclination to end a converastion abruptly, which, judging by his wife, was a sexually transmitted affliction. I wondered how long it would be before I started sending e-mails that were half-finished or waltzing out of bars without finishing a story about the worst test drive I’d ever taken.
I got up, still pondering this question, and closed the door to my office. I had expected a wave of emotion, but much later, like three months down the road when I ran into Kelley at the grocery store and saw him buying a month’s worth of T.V. dinners. Somehow it had crept up on me, and as I sat back down at my desk, I began to cry. My sobs were short and silly, reminding me of Marissa’s jokes. The only difference was my tears had never resided at 40 Ruthellen Way.
