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firefighter,
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years she was married to Dan; even though she told herself she was quite capable of quitting again, it was always going to be tomorrow - if not tomorrow, then next week; if not next week, then next month. But for now, being after midnight, she wasn’t in any state to make a long-term decision. She let out a sigh, as she lit up a smoke.
It had been a ritual every Wednesday night for the past four months. A couple of bottles of Shiraz, a fresh pack of cigarettes and the ghosts of her self esteem. She couldn’t tell you why she chose Wednesday over any other night to honor this strange pact, both a conscious resignation and wry celebration of her solitude. Perhaps it was the recognition of having passed the middle of the workweek without strangling her immediate supervisor at Palmer and Hall. Perhaps it was the crude, sarcastic but strangely flattering comment she heard from a carload of passing teenagers one Wednesday night back in March (where she had been granted with the title of “Queen of the MILFs”) that she chose to immortalize as the instigator of her “Me Day.” But each Wednesday night, not even the sounds of the endless mix CDs she made for herself in her early 20s or the boisterous and audible gropings of her upstairs neighbors were enough to deter Laura from her obligations.
It would be six hours until she needed to get up and face the day. Like each Thursday morning, she would have to face it with the dry, dull throb of a hangover. She knew that it meant tending to the affection-and-food-starved needs of Wink, her four year old Siamese before shuffling off to brew her first three cups of coffee. She knew it meant checking her Facebook to ensure she didn’t drunkenly post or message any hysterical or self-pitying missives; she learned that mistake six months after the divorce. She knew it meant, at least this time, finalizing and confirming her itinerary for that weekend’s convention —a process even more nerve wracking, since it meant sharing a room with Gloria, her immediate supervisor. In Providence, Rhode Island , of all places, a city she assumed could be driven straight through in less time than it took to blink an eye. The thought made her shudder, as she poured herself a sixth glass of wine and instinctually refreshed her laptop.
Laura tried to avoid looking at the photos on her Facebook page for the umpteenth time, but like the past two hours, simply couldn’t help herself. They were of Dan and his new fiancé Sonia, basking on the beach in Bonaire. Smiling effervescently, drunkenly, romping around the sands like a couple of poorly paid bit models for a tourism commercial. Since taking up with Sonia, Dan had not only learned the finer points of body grooming and cross-fit training, but also appeared more relaxed, carefree and reckless. ‘ Why wouldn’t he?’ thought Laura. ‘ After all, with Sonia’s daddy’s money, he doesn’t have to worry about paying the rent. Both of them can get cosmetic surgery at the slightest sign of a wrinkle. Where does that leave me? ’
Laura got up and examined herself from all angles in the dining room mirror. True, she had put on a few pounds since the divorce—twenty, to be exact—but they seemed to compliment her, giving her a more rounded, sensual physique. Her strawberry blonde hair still retained its hue, even though the ends had been frazzled and arid from stress. If lines showed on her face, they did nothing to detract from the buoyancy of her skin. And her slate grey eyes—if now thick and reddened by smoke and wine—still arched upwards at the corners, giving Laura a sly, feline look.
True, her job as a Senior HR representative for a national law firm wasn’t as glamorous as the lifestyle of a groomed 26-year old heiress; but she was articulate, cunningly intelligent and possessed of a rapier-sharp wit. At 34, she may not be as young and bubbly as she once was when she first started dating Dan; but she was hardly an old maid, either.