Play Assingment

Chapter 5

The morning was hard. Having previously turned off the phone and the alarm clock, I allowed myself to sleep. So I thought when I went to bed.

I was wrong.

At night I dreamed about the club. And a man in a black mask. And I am naked in his power.

I woke up angry and irritated. Two sleepless nights are too much. I ran my hand through my hair and ruffled it, not understanding what was happening to me. Thoughts got lost in a ball, which there was no desire to unravel. At least in the morning.

And again, coffee. And again, the blanket.

This was followed by a laptop.

Yes, Mr. Dawson, I will complete the task. I will do exactly as you asked. I'll tell you about my feelings. About all.

I didn't notice the time. I pounded on the keyboard, coming off only to quickly make a sandwich and wash it down with coffee. Then tea. Then coffee again.

When I put an end to it by writing "The End," the clock beeped nine in the evening.

Fine. Sleep, Abigail, sleep!

I never turned on the phone, so when I woke up, the first thing I did was reach for it. Turning it on and gasped. One message and fifteen missed calls, wow! There were calls from Emma, from Corina, from Mr. Dawson already at eleven o'clock, and from my mother. I would call Emma and Mr. Dowson after a shower when I finally come to my senses. I need to call my mom immediately. We called up every two or three days. She lived in another city and was just now doing a major renovation of the apartment. She called me often to tell me what impudent builders are, how they shamelessly mock a single woman, trying to cheat and foist in low-quality material. Mom once worked as a construction superintendent with all the ensuing consequences. Therefore, I shamelessly told her that she was having fun at the expense of other people's men, imitating a helpless lonely woman.

My mother could not forgive me for divorce from Mason. And she talked about it at every opportunity.

I was already reaching for the receiver when I realized that I couldn't listen to my mother's carefree babble. In the evening, I sent her a message. "Mommy, I'm a little busy, I'll call in the evening." The answer came almost instantly. "I hope this busy one is worth ignoring your own mother." Yeah, I have a creative one.

I dialed Emma. She would bring me back to reality.

- Damn it, where are you? I couldn't get through to you all yesterday!

- I worked.

- She worked, aha! I wonder how?

- Fruitful.

- Will you tell?

- Yes, A bit later. - Why was she looking for me? Something important?

- Naturally! Do you remember that handsome guy from the cafe? Abigail, he….

And it began. While I was listening to the story about her new lover, I made sandwiches and squeezed orange juice. I occasionally peppered the so-called dialogue with insignificant remarks: "And you?", "And he?" There was one bad thing about Emma if you start communicating with her often, she will consider herself obliged to relay to you every minute she lived, what she ate, where she went, what she bought. Now I am paying the price. You can, of course, break off relations, move away, say that there is no time for chatter, but for some reason, her chatter helped to distract me from my own problems and worries.

Although it depends on how I look at it.

I listened to Emma. I drank juice. I ate sandwiches. And in my head, Ava's farewell words consistently sounded, again and again, like a worn-out record:

- Abigail, you know I liked you. I dare to think that you liked it with us. Therefore, I am making you an offer. If you would like to join us for one night or become a regular customer, you are welcome. I will always be glad to see you. And remember, we can make any of your temptations come true.

Temptation. Yes, it was. Everyone has a temptation. But not everyone can voice it out loud.

- What do you think? -Emma's question brought me back to reality.

What she was asking about, I did not know, and I didn't hear, so I answered neutrally.

- That you will make the right choice.

- Oh, you know how to cheer up a person! And I am now saying this without sarcasm! Your words are decisive! So, - Emma laughed contentedly into the phone, and I was on my guard that I had just knocked out a friend.

- So you're doing well?

- It couldn't be better.

Apparently, she really had everything okay, because she was not particularly interested in my affairs, and I was in no hurry to share the thoughts swarming in my head.

Saying goodbye to her, I called my boss.

- Abigail, my dear, the article is beyond praise - the editor began without a preface. -You gave exactly what was required!

It sounded ambiguous. I chuckled.

- So you liked everything?

- Very much!

- I'm glad. Then I will wait for a new exciting task. - Did my phrase also sound ambiguous, or did I start to get a little paranoid?

- Certainly, Abigail, certainly.

My phone rang, and when I picked up the call, my mom said without even "Hi":

- I saw Mason.

I immediately wanted to hang up, roll onto the bed, and cover my head with a pillow.

- Mom - I moaned, making it clear that I do not want to talk about this topic.

It didn't work. My mother is not easy to get through to.

- What do you mean by "Mom"? I've been a mom for thirty years!

- Every time you remind me of my age, Mom!

- And every time you interrupt me and try to get away from the topic of conversation!

- I don't want to talk about Mason! – The words came out sharper than they should have. Why the hell is he on the horizon again? I just started to calm down.

- Why don't you want to talk about your husband? - Her voice vibrated.

- Mom, let's stop this conversation before we fight.

- Abigail, you don't want to talk about him for six months! Maybe it's time to stop running from yourself?

- Damn it! I'm not running from myself! Maybe you know better than me? Will you enlighten me? Tell me what I did wrong? It was not me who left Mason! It was HE who divorced me. He did!

- Abigail!

- Mom, how much can I say about the same thing? Salt an open wound? I just started to forget him. You just called me to tell me how great he looks, how his business is going uphill, and so on? I know! But what's that to me? He doesn't call me, doesn't write. Oh yes, he is sending money! But it would be better if he didn't! Because I don't need anything from him! I do not want to see him or hear from him! He struck me out of his life!

I freaked out and hung up, annoyingly tossing the phone onto the sofa. Even when I was angry, I tried not to break the dishes or spoil the electronics.

The phone rang annoyingly again.

I closed my eyes and counted to five. Mom will not calm down. I know her.

-Mom, I'm sorry, I'll call you back, -I replied, trying to speak in a calmer tone.

Well, the mood is ruined for the whole day. And because of whom? Because of Mason? It is foolish to blame him for what he is.

I closed my eyes and leaned wearily back against the back of the sofa. Do I still love him? When we lived together, I loved him very much. He said he loved me too. We divorced because of his love. If I tell anyone about it, they will laugh their pants off. Why do people get divorced? Because of treason, because of lack of money, because of disrespect for each other, when it becomes sick to be together in the same room. And why are we divorced?

I will forever remember the evening when he came from the salon, threw the keys, jerked off the "noose" from his neck, and said:

- I quit.

To say that I was taken aback to say nothing.

- How did you quit? -The question sounded naive. Mason was the director of operations of a large car dealership.

- I launched another company last month. Things were going uphill, and there is a similar statement. So, I quit my director of operations job.

There was no anger or irritation. Just a misunderstanding.

- But, Mason, why? -I knew everything was in order with our finances, and there was no need to worry about what we would live on. Yet, his dismissal was an outrageous fact. We lived together for two years, and he never gave a hint that he wanted to quit the car business. He worked hard, worried a lot, but he never told me that he wanted to leave.

Mason walked over to the table, pushed back a chair, and sat down. He looked tired. There were bluish circles under his eyes, and the mesh of wrinkles increased. Yes, he was tired and needed a break. But the respite from the dismissal did not fit into my head.

- Pour me some whiskey, Boo.

The word stung the ear. My Mason did not express himself, did not use jargon in his speech. He always spoke correctly, beautifully. One more digression.

I obediently walked over to the bar, took out a big-bellied bottle, and poured some liquid into a wide glass.

- Mason, - I was waiting for at least some explanation.

And they followed.

It would be better if he was silent.

It would be better if I were silent. Then, a few weeks later, a thought arose in my head and sat tight. If I were tactful, did not insist, left the man alone, would it have been possible to avoid the drama?

Mason drank in one gulp, did not even frown. Noisily, he put the glass on the wooden table and looked at me. I looked straight back. And this caused the disposition.

- I'm going to start writing and become a writer, – said Mason.

I had to bite my tongue, from which I almost broke off: "What prevents you from doing two things at the same time?" Much got in the way. I knew about Mason's desire to write books. He spoke several times. It was worth seeing his eyes in those rare moments! They began to glow from within. But Mason cut himself off, not giving the thought to realize itself. I felt he was driving desire deep inside himself.

And then, apparently, it burst.

I wanted to throw a fit. "Damn it; we're family! And family means discussing everything! At least I thought so. Okay, quit - so quit. I'll get through this somehow. But, damn it, it's still a shame. Why didn't you tell me? Why did you confront the fact?"

I didn't have time to voice the questions and did not have time to throw a fit.

Because what followed was an even more shocking statement:

- Abigail, that's not all. - An unpleasant chill ran down my spine. A premonition of trouble fell on my shoulders. - I intend to take writing seriously. I want to write, and I do not want to be distracted by anyone while I do. Abigail, I won't be able to pay due attention to you. Therefore, I propose to divorce.

I have never heard a more absurd statement. After the first shock passed, I laughed hysterically.

- Are you out of your mind?

- No.

It was enough for me to look into his eyes to realize he was not joking. He decided everything.

Mason was one of those rare men who were extremely responsible in their duties. He got married, provided for his wife, and surrounded her with care.

I realized that I could not cope with the obligations I had taken on, and I broke it in the bud. Provided a chance for a better life. So he thought.

It was useless to argue and dissuade.

I wanted to hit the wall and shout. Shout. Demand he hears my opinion. Then I wanted to climb onto his lap and say quietly: "Don't divorce me. I will be quietly present in your life. Cook. Wash. You won't even notice me."

I didn't say anything. I did not tell anyone about the valid reasons for the divorce. Because in our modern society, we would be considered idiots. The desire to write does not warrant quitting a high-paying job. People do not get divorced because they will be too busy to pay attention to each other. I knew at least three families where the spouses coexisted in the same house as neighbors. They might not speak for weeks. Breakfast and dinner separately, some in a vast cold dining room, some in an expensive restaurant. The bedrooms, respectively, were also separate. They saw each other in passing. And us? We got divorced. I didn't cry, didn't ask him to change his mind. Was I happy with Mason? No. So I should rejoice! Many did not have this either.

But still, deep down, I didn't forgive him, and I wasn't going to forgive him. I had no doubt he would write (if not already) a bestseller. I confess that I entered his name several times in the search engine; the result was negative. No book has yet been published with his name. He may have taken on a pseudonym.

If he behaved as a scoundrel, if he didn't pay me enough maintenance for a comfortable living, I would be able to hate him. Could fire on what the light is worth. But he took that away from me too.

And yet I missed him. Very much.

I got drunk that day. I never called my mother. I went to the store, bought some groceries, and, already heading to the checkout, turned to the wine department. Two bottles of vodka seemed to me the right addition to today's product range.

I drank one. Clinked glasses with my own reflection in the mirror.

It was awful. Even disgusting. I wanted to howl and bang my head against the wall. Instead, I arranged a striptease with a glass in my hand. I turned on melodic music and danced, getting rid of the clothes I didn't need. I whirled around the room and convinced myself that everything was a new life for me, a new round. There is no road to the past.

When I felt the floor receding from under my feet, I somehow got to the sofa and collapsed onto it. The last thing I remembered, falling into unconsciousness, was the image of the Dom walking imperiously around the Alexandrian Cross.