The Divorcee Murder Club

Uno ~ 1

                  What’s it like being a divorced, thirty-something-year-old man forced to attend therapy sessions and a support group? Well, it’s a recipe for bitterness and sex deprivation. Not to mention how numbing it is listening to other divorcées complain about their asshole exes.

Bleeding open to a group of strangers is like having your mother read your diary, so I prefer to keep quiet and only share when I have to. Because my situation really isn’t that bad. Unlike Alma, whose husband kidnapped her to avoid signing papers. Now he has serious issues.

Tonight's group session is as dull as always with the same ol' grievances from the same ol' people, which makes me want to tuck-tail early before Gwen, my therapist, guilts me into sharing again. You'd think she'd know by now I hate talking about my ex-wife since it only makes me want to punch through a wall whenever I do.

However, the renovated Victorian's front door swings open with a gust of wind, the pitter-patter of rain hitting the steps, and the promise of chaos when I glance over. A woman walks in with a fur coat soggy from the evening storm and long, damp curls stretching down her shoulders. She blows out cigarette smoke—the cloud taking shape around her before walking through it, and holy moly, who is this creature crossing the room with those black stiletto boots riding up those impressive fishnet-covered thighs?

Everyone else is too occupied picking their nails or staring into space to notice her, except Gwen and me. We follow her with our eyes as she makes her way to the foldout table displaying refreshments and snacks. Meanwhile, Mindy continues crying about her husband cheating on her. Mindy, Mindy, Mindy. She's thinking of taking him back, and as much as I'd like to tell her to kick him in the dick, my attention won't leave the mystery woman.

The trickle of coffee going into her styrofoam cup is louder than Mindy's sniffling, or maybe I'm too zoned in. Seriously, who the fuck is she?

Before taking a sip, she pulls another drag from her cigarette, and that's when Gwen pipes up.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but you can't smoke in here. You need to put it out."

After taking one last puff, she drops the cigarette into her cup and blows out the smoke. I scoot to the edge of my seat because I kinda like this woman, and holy shit, if she didn't just take a sip of coffee with the cigarette floating inside. Oh, she's bad!

Gwen stands, her mouth opening and closing before sputtering, "Please, take a seat and introduce yourself. You don't mind, right Mindy?"

Yes, introduce yourself.

Her legs aren't long, but the strides she's making across the creaky scuffed wood of this old Victorian's renovated living room make her look like a model strutting the runway. She knows she's a traffic-stopper. After easing into a chair, she crosses one toned thigh over the other and folds her hands on them.

"I'm Angelina Mendoza, but everyone calls me Angie."

"Welcome to our support group, Angie. How did you hear about us?"

"I saw the flyer at Philz Coffee." She fishes into her soggy fur coat and pulls out the crumbled purple paper.

"Well, that's wonderful! Happy to have you here. Would you like to share your story?" Gwen asks.

"Sure, fuck it, get it out of the way, right?" She takes another gulp of coffee, and I swear the beast in my pants is awakening.

Something so grotesque doesn't usually arouse my sexual appetite, but I'll probably find everything she does hot. Rebellious women are kind of a turn-on. And damnit, all of this built-up testosterone is messing with me. I drop my head in my palms and begin rubbing my temples while remembering how I tried banging Mindy a few weeks back. She's not over her husband, but that's ok because I'm pretty sure I'd ruin her. We ended up sitting there at the bar, drunkenly talking about our exes. What a waste of time. Why are we like this? But not Angie. I bet she ripped her exes throat out with her teeth and set it on fire.