Corpulent bodies are simply the vehicles our souls use to scoot around in this world: some are flashy and sexy, (bikini) waxed and polished; some are rusty old wrecks who just keep sputtering down the road, somehow; some are fleet and dependable, like SUVs; others, heavy-duty pick-up trucks with an extended cab poking out over their belt buckles.
Ginny Rasmussen was a Ford sedan—nothing that would get your attention if you passed her in a parking garage—who felt more like a taxicab to be hailed by her abusive husband, a bad-ass Land Rover named Rick, whenever he demanded something.
It should have dawned on her all those years ago that her fiancé was a narcissistic control freak bully when they were (he was) planning their nuptials: Rick had final say on the floral arrangements (bluebells, to bring out the color of my eyes against my white tuxedo) flavor of the cake for the reception (vanilla with butter-pecan frosting—I can’t have chocolate crumbs stuck in my teeth for my photo shoot), and even the gown she walked down the aisle in (high-necked—nobody sees your cleavage, today and forevermore, but me).
Standing at the ironing board, pressing the perfect crease into Rick’s designer jeans, and then into his socks and silk undershorts, Ginny’s dismal existence was relieved for one scant hour on weekday afternoons when she could escape to the alternative reality of her favorite soap opera, The Company We Keep, that was just coming on the tube right now.
Although Mondays sucked the most because they signaled another week of drudgery ahead—a lonely and quiet week of drudgery ahead because Rick never wanted noisy brats banging around his house, and he banished her friends and family from her life years ago because they were “bad influences who only fucked you up”—today should be a good one because last Friday’s cliffhanger was going to be resolved, she hoped! She spat on the iron’s bottom plate pretending it was her husband’s face, smiled as it sizzled, then turned on her weeper, recapping last week’s episodes in her mind:
Guy DuMont, the virile secret stepson of his father’s uncle and heir to the family cheese fortune, had just come out of amnesia and realized he was about to be tricked into marrying that scheming, gold-digging vamp, Maria Hathaway, his high school sweetheart who was still trying to worm her way into his charmed life—even after he dumped her at prom; even after she survived a plane crash, a shark attack, and a diabetic coma.
Last Friday’s climactic episode took place at the DuMont seaside estate, Vista Mar; the final scene was a shot of an empty gazebo overlooking the crashing sea, decorated for a wedding. Would Guy say “I do”?
The pressing question was interrupted by the front door slamming.
“Ha! Ha! You fucking bitch! Just as I suspected!”
“What are you doing home early, Honey?” Ginny asked in surprised fright, keeping the iron handy because she could tell her husband had been drinking already.
“I took the day off. I just pretended to go to work this morning to set a trap. I knew you were cheating on me and now I have proof!” He weaved towards her with the fiery countenance of a boxer.
“Have you lost your mind? What are you talking about, Honey?” Ginny trembled and recoiled defensively. This could be a bad one, and I can’t call 9-1-1 because my phone’s on the kitchen table, she remembered in panic, having been through this drill before. “What kind of proof can you possibly have on me?” she asked meekly in a quiver, trying to soothe him down.
“What kind of proof?” He blistered, storming closer towards her. “Stating the obvious, you two-timing fucking whore! Tell me whose Porsche is parked in the fucking driveway, bitch!” Now he was within a one-two combo of her face. “WHOSE FUCKING PORSCHE???”
“Mine,” a sultry masculine baritone voice answered from the Rasmussen bedroom. A shirtless, chiseled specimen of a man whose BMI was as perfect as his teeth, and who sported enough blonde chest hairs to be sexy, but not too many to be a turn-off, stepped out into the room, stage left, ready to rescue his fair maiden from her bloody fate. “And I’m taking Ginny to Vista Mar to be my wife, asshole! The marriage ceremony will take place tomorrow on The Company We Keep, 3 o’clock, 2 o’clock Central time, on ABC!”
After taking the hot iron to Rick’s Land Rover, Guy DuMont swept the widow off her feet and out the door. They tied the knot in the gazebo overlooking the crashing sea; their lives are now full of plywood luxury, jarring plot twists, and lots of commercial breaks.
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