Tuesday, September 11, 2007

He rode up on his red Honda Goldwing, dressed in black leathers that protected him from not only the chillier autumn air, but also from some chance meeting with any other vehicle, which would mean laying down the bike and significant road rash. He parked on the street, setting the vehicle up on it's bike stand, rather than the kick-stand--and should the weather turn warmer, he wouldn't have to worry about the pavement heating up, which would surely allow his pride and joy to fall over dead on it's side.

The other biker he'd been riding with for some hours also dressed in black leathers, but riding a black Harley Davidson, and parking underneath a nearby tree. The Harley was smaller, but so was the rider, sleek, smooth lines, and when the black helmet was removed, revealed a red-head with long locks and big green eyes and full lips.

They had met on the road just a few hours ago, and headed for the nearest pub this Saturday night. He didn't know that she'd led him to a singles bar, and here he was, one married man about to take the wrong step.

I watched them park their bikes, and stepped into the tavern myself, watching, lest he see me. I'd been following at a safe distance, having seen his motorcycle on the road, decided to see where it would take me. Imagine my surprise, when I walk into the seedy singles joint. His wife had hired me to follow him, because she thought he was cheating on her. Sure enough looked like it! I stepped into the shadows in the back of the room, while the dj set up his music and his cd players and plugged in his microphone, setting things up for the singles dance to be held a bit later after the clientele belted down a few.

The place was pretty popular, and I'd had a little trouble finding a spot to park sufficiently far away, but yet still within sight. I waited in the shadows, and true to form, he walked in with her, his arm around her waist holding her as close as the law would allow in public without being obscene. She smiled and tossed her hair back. She couldn't be more than 20 or so, and he was over 40, nearing 50, with a paunch all the way around the middle. What was it about those eyes that drew stupid women to him like a magnet. Yes, this would be another one of his conquests--and I could see by the look in her eye that it wasn't going to take long.

They sat well away from me, up nearer to the dance floor. I took my camera out of my bag, a small Kodak disposable, and prepared for the evening. Nobody ever bothered me, seeing the big white rock on my left hand--generally thought of as taboo by most, but with the camera? Well, once in a while, I'd get a question about that, but usually well after the bar patrons had sunk to their eniebrated lowest, and so it was easy to lie and get away with it.

He dropped a quarter into the jukebox, and played "their song", and snuggled closer to her in the booth they'd chosen. He couldn't keep his hands off of her, and shortly, after a beer, he got bold, and the two of them strolled out into the looming dusk, stars already beginning to twinkle in the sky. I was going to have to hurry, if I was to get any half-way decent light to take a picture of the two of them, so I slipped out the side door, and walked quietly around the other side from where I'd seen them go. I caught up with them, he had her, against the tree--they carried on as if no one could see. Hands flew here and there, and I caught my picture of them in a long, saliva draining, tongue searching--not even really a kiss, but more like need and hot desire, mixed with the controlling power of youth and masculinity denied. I thought to myself silently, had it not been quite so light, I would have walked in on them in full disarray, but took my pictures, quietly, for the wife who waited at home.

She had come to me on June 25th, the beginnings of the hot summer just becomming evident. The flowers were out, but she was crying, sure and certain that he was cheating on her, but wouldn't actually believe it unless she saw it with both eyes. I've been tracking these slugs for years, taking pictures for the divorce lawyer to use in order to get a proper settlement for a woman done wrong, but hey, let's face it, right? If you don't trust them, the story is already over, right? I mean, just be done with it, get a divorce and walk away with your dignity! But most women wouldn't do something like that. That's why I made money, and why my business was so lucretive. I was really good at this sly, detective-style stuff. I knew how to keep my nose out of other people's business, and how to keep things professional with my client. Because I was a woman helped me get the clientele I needed to make a living. Not only had I once been married to this type of slime-ball, I understood the client's reasons for not wanting to divorce without proof. There is just something inherently wrong with the idea of divorce for a woman--it's supposed to be forever. Many times, sadly, it is, whether the marriage lasts after this sort of confrontation, or whether it ends in divorce, the betrayal Never goes away.

I came out of my own personal reverie to watch them return to the bar, his thumb hooked into the loop of her black leather chaps. The music was just starting up, and there was a couple already on the dance floor. I walked back around the back of the joint and slipped in quietly, and sat down with my drink again. I slipped the camera back into my purse.

The night wore on, and he was totally wasted. SHE on the other hand, had only had one beer, and was having trouble holding him up on the dance floor, since he was so much heavier than she could ever hope to be, or at least until she passed that magic 30 year mark. In any case, he was pretty much begging for it when she finally took him outdoors, slapped him a couple of times, and loaded him on HER bike, and they took off, probably to a motel nearby, where they could do the deed and rest a while, sober up, and go back to the bar, pick up his own bike and head for hearth and home, reeking of drink so strong that she wouldn't even notice the musk on him. I expected it would take all of a couple more hours, so I headed for Mrs. Draner's house to give her the camera, that was now full of pictures of her husband and a variety of woman--not just the tall, lithe red-headded biker, but a teenage blonde, a pregnant brunette that I wondered if the child was his, and a punk rocker with one blue spike on top of her head, the rest of her head had been shaven clean, and she had a tattoo of a celtic design on the back of her pate. Really classy women, I got to say, and everyone of them ended the same way. This is why I didn't bother to follow the biker babe. I knew where that was going, and I already had him in some really damaging situations--the teenager picture might even put him in jail for statutory rape! Which was secretly my wicked hope for this guy.

Why? Because he is my ex-husband, too, and I was out to get that cold revenge he so often spoke of. Reese's Pieces on the rampage, and it was going to be over for him soon.

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