French Manicure

Goldfish wrote a fiction cliffhanger yesterday. I asked how it ends and she asked me how I would end the story and suggested we do a story in the round. What fun!

Here we go –

Myra sighed as she read the postcard once more. “Eduardo and sunshine are all anyone needs. Wish you were here – my nails look like crap. XOXO Melissa”

After her shocking confession last month, Melissa turned herself in and discovered that her husband of 20 years was leading a secret life as a Saudi spy and was wanted by the FBI for money laundering and the suspicious death of three FBI operatives. Instead of serving time in prison, Melissa was awarded the Medal of Valor. She later discovered that her husband had several secret bank accounts that she was able to clean out as executor of his will. She now lives happily ever after on a sunny beach in Mexico, tipping the pool boy, Eduardo, outrageously every time he brings her a Margarita and sends Myra the occasional postcard.

“Some girls have all the luck!” French Manicure scowled as she blew on her nails. “Single, rich and shagging some hunk named Eduardo.”

“I don’t know – she’ll have to live with what she did for the rest of her life and that can’t be easy. I mean, how many of us have killed someone? And it was her husband – she must have nightmares, no matter how much he might have deserved it,” replied Melissa.

“Harumpph. She has it good, mark my words,” French Manicure said, dropping a buck on the table for a tip, “she doesn’t have nightmares, and she never will. She should spend a day with my asshole husband – then she’d have nightmares!”

Myra shook her head as French Manicure walked out the door, the chimes ringing their merry tune as the door swung shut.

French Manicure walked the half block to the Thai restaurant everyone raved about. She hated Thai. She hated everything about the place, from the smell of the food to the obsequious attitude of the hostess. These people made her stomach turn. She was picking up food here only because the strong spices would mask the flavor of the sleeping pills she would add before feeding it to her husband.

She hated him, too. The way he bought her flowers and was constantly asking her, “how do you feel?” As if she would bother to tell the little nag anything! He was a weak man and she did her best to keep him from discovering her True Self. If the conversation veered towards “feelings” (his favorite topic) she started a fight. She was not going to allow him to control her. She’d had enough of that from her father, thankyouverymuch!

Her thoughts were dark as she hailed a taxi to take her the final half mile to the apartment she shared with her husband of 7 years. She shook out her keys as she approached the door and took a deep breath before sliding the key into the lock.

“I’m home!” she called out in a false cheery voice as she pushed the door open.

Silence greeted her. “What a relief!” She kicked off her shoes and put the food into the refrigerator. As she strolled into the bedroom, she called out again, “are you here, honey? Or are you working late again, you miserable bastard?”

No sound but for the clock ticking on the false mantle. Light glinted off the windows from the living room. The closet door stood open. It was empty.

A note lay on the bed, rows of neat lettering on her expensive lavender stationary.

“Dear Sandy,” she read…