Slade paused the video and looked over to Streets, whose speechless gaze remained locked on the frozen image.
Chapter Five
“There you are,” the nurse said softly.
Clay’s eyes opened slowly, blinking and squinting as he adjusted to the surrounding lights. “Ughmf,” he groaned.
“You gave us quite a scare,” the nurse said as she worked over him. “Doctor, could you come in here?”
The doctor poked his head in and saw that Clay had regained consciousness. “Sure, I’ll be just a minute.”
Before the nurse left, she turned to Clay with a warm smile. “There are people here to see you. Once the doctor has checked you over, they can visit.”
“People?” Clay asked as she walked away.
The nurse paused and regarded him thoughtfully. “Can we call anyone for you?”
Clay strained at the thought. “My w-wife—wait, s-sorry, divorced. I-I guess I’m a little mixed up.” He strained to focus on her hazy form.
“Well, won’t your ex come? You were married once, doesn’t she—”
“No, she doesn’t,“ Clay snapped.
The nurse stepped back and crossed her arms. Clay blinked his eyes some more and caught a glimpse of her name tag. He could only make out the first part of her name, ‘Char’.
“Sorry, just need a minute,” Clay added.
The nurse nodded. “Okay.” Then she left him alone.
Waiting for the doctor, his mind raced with thoughts of Leslie. Should I call her?
With that, he was back in his kitchen—their kitchen—the coffee machine gurgling furiously... His mind replaying harsh words spoken years ago.
𓂓
As he waited for the brew, Clay ran his fingers over the two dusty mugs that taunted him each morning from a small rack set on the counter. Meant as an innocuous wedding gift, they had been personalized to read ‘Hers’ and ‘
“You should never have quit the engineering firm to start a stupid fucking landscape company.” Without even looking up from her magazine, Leslie repeated her morning greeting yet again with the casual yet caustic manner she had mastered in their time together. Her vulgarity contrasted the elegance of her silk pajamas.
With a huff, Clay pulled a plain mug from the cabinet, filled it, stirred in a little honey, and took a quick slurp of the life-giving concoction. Leaning against the granite countertop, cupping the warm mug, he breathed in the dark-roasted fragrance as he considered her words.
Standing there in his boxers, Clay issued his now standard reply, “It was my choice.”
She regarded him for a moment, a hint of attraction quivered in her body as it often did, softening her expression. “I’m just shocked you would even consider it,” she said before returning her attention to her magazine.
Tired of being provoked every morning, Clay snapped back. “Dammit Leslie, I’m my own boss. Besides that, you know I prefer hard work better than being parked at a desk all day.”
She jerked her head up and narrowed her eyes as she pushed back her auburn hair. “And a whole wardrobe of fine men’s clothes collecting dust. Those custom suits my father had made for you. All those ties I bought for you, and now you’ll never wear any of it again.”
He had grown weary of living a contrived version of himself for Leslie. He had made a change. It was that simple and she turned on him because of it. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course I’ll still dress up occasionally. Maybe, I don’t know,” Clay scratched his cheek and looked up in thought for a second, “out to dinner or something.”
“You think I’m being ridiculous?” She straightened her boney frame and continued. “So, my dirty ass little landscaper will come home and transform himself back into my handsome husband, impeccably dressed in a bespoke suit, ready to go out in less than an hour.” She puffed out a short breath. “That... is ridiculous.”
“It can be done.” But it would suck after a long day in the heat.
“Don’t you see that kind of work is beneath us?”
“Us? It’s my job, Leslie, not yours.”
“What you do reflects upon me. I never wanted to be with a dirty ass landscaper. I couldn’t imagine a more demeaning job.”
Nonsense, there are plenty.
Clay had been born into a blue-collar family. He took pride in the work—something Leslie failed to understand. Leslie’s father had raised her in a vacuum of affluence. She expected acquiescence and resented Clay’s newfound rebelliousness. He had let this go on too long. Eventually, he would come to realize that her insults were just a vain attempt to provoke and then vilify him for his reaction; therefore, justifying her decision to leave.
“I’m tired of hearing this shit from you. Every. Damn. Day,” he said, jabbing his finger at the floor.
Undeterred, Leslie countered, “You don’t understand. We’re hardly ever out together anymore. I have to explain to my co-workers, our friends, why they never see you at lunch downtown or happy hour on Thursdays. No one gets it. I feel like I have to defend you and it’s embarrassing.”
Clay simply stared down into his mug as if he might crawl into it for a warm coffee bath.
Leslie stood, then got in his face. “You’re embarrassing.”
𓂓
The beep of a machine snapped Clay back and he squirmed a little in the bed. Despite Leslie’s hostility, he had handled the end games of their marriage adroitly. Even though he had tried to put it behind him, he remained pissed off because her off-handed comments and vicious gibes still resonated in his memory years later, and often served to fuel his overactive insecurities.
Hard to believe, all that wasted time.
