The One Left at Home

She fingered the rotary dial, tracing his number as she had a million times before. She knew he wasn’t going to call, he never did anyway. There’d be quick hello’s and a nice evening in when he got back, but that was just about all that happened. His dutiful, loving wife of ten years, still pining over him like a little child. It sickened her that she still felt the same despair every time he left on one of those “oh so important” business trips. She should have been numb to that a long time ago. She kicked the night stand beside her, sending the heirloom vase toppling.
“Oh well. He probably won’t even notice.”
Anger grew. Resentment deepened. There was no point in pretending she was anything more than a trophy wife. She felt faded in obscurity, lost to the shadows that hid inbetween the portraits and paintings.
“I’m just a pretty face. A pretty face he doesn’t even notice anymore!”
She clenched her fists and dialed, every number spun increasing her burning rage.
“Johnny? It’s your wife. We need to talk.”

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