Chapter 12 - The Storm Gathering
I didn't officially serve him the papers that night. Denise told me to wait until Friday, when the process server would have everything legally binding and notarized. I needed a few days to coordinate with building security.
The atmosphere in the apartment for those four days was toxic.
Eric fluctuated between aggressive posturing and pathetic attempts at manipulation. He bought me flowers on Wednesday, which I threw in the trash. On Thursday, he told me I was overreacting and that couples fight about money all the time.
“We aren't fighting about money,” I told him. “We’re fighting about theft.”
Gloria and Brittany seemed to sense the impending doom. They became brazenly antagonistic. Gloria would blast the television at maximum volume while I was trying to work. Brittany left dirty dishes piled high in my pristine sink.
They were daring me to snap. They wanted me to yell, to scream, to act like the "crazy, unstable wife" so Eric could play the victim.
But I gave them nothing. I remained a ghost.
Friday evening arrived. The weather matched the mood perfectly. A brutal summer thunderstorm rolled into Manhattan, turning the sky a bruised purple. Rain lashed violently against the floor-to-ceiling windows, obscuring the glittering skyline.
I arrived home at 6:30 PM, exhausted but clutching my leather briefcase tightly. Inside was the blue folder containing the finalized petition for divorce.
When I walked into the living room, the scene before me was so bizarre, so incredibly archaic, that for a moment, I thought I was hallucinating.
Gloria was sitting dead center on my custom white leather sofa. Her arms were crossed.
Eric stood behind her like a loyal foot soldier.
And on the floor, resting on one of my expensive Egyptian cotton towels, was a bright red plastic basin filled with sudsy water.
The pungent, chemical smell of bleach burned my nose.
“What is this?” I asked, dropping my keys.
May you like
Gloria smiled, a nasty, triumphant curl of her lips. “Kneel down.”
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