Relief

 

My divorce had been devastating, and the beating laid on me by the husband of the work colleague who had actually seduced me and been responsible for my divorce in the first place wasn't far short of occupying the same less than elevated position in my thoughts.

Yeah, I get it. It takes two and all that. But...

Why am I bothering? Why prolong the torture? Dwelling on a mistake, as we all know - or should know, isn't healthy.

Learning from them though?

That, my friends, is a whole different kettle of piscatory conundrums.

My name is Matt Arondsen. I'm a divorced forty-four-year-old Bostonian father of three who writes Wills for a living. And I have learning difficulties.

Why else would I be kneeling here on all-fours about to...

I get ahead of myself.

Let me try again.

And this time I'll take it from the time my current... situation ...began...

 

***

 

...In the year or so before our divorce was finalised, Glenda, my ex-wife, had already found another man.

And this one, she had informed me with vindictive and understandable joy, would be for life.

They had made plans and would tie the knot the day after it was all finalised between us.

The fucking day after!

That was when the papers making our separation legal hit the mat in the family home we were in the process of selling and in which, for the time being, she still lived while I occupied some cheap rooms until it sold.

The bright side, if I could describe it as such, being I was off the hook for alimony and could certainly use the money we'd split from the sale of our Bay Village four-bedroom town-house.

So why wasn't I happier?

Surprisingly, given how our marriage ended, I'm really not a shallow person and the absence from my life of a wife and a home I still loved to distraction, despite my infidelity, was an emotional pain even more sharp than the loss of my parents just after we had married.

And the continuing neck pain from the beating I received at the hands of my co-worker's husband just refused to quit; even if strong painkillers provided the usual temporary relief.

Happiness, as you might have gathered, just wasn't in my future at that time and still isn't, but I at least I came out of it with a comfortable bought-and-paid-for one-bedroom apartment, not far from my old home and workplace, and had no other worries.

Save, that is, for the growing distance between myself and my three grown-up children, all of whom - again understandably - had taken their mother's side in the divorce and seemed no warmer to me once it was finalised.

Unlike Glenda's feelings towards me, however, I lived in hope that their anger and disappointment towards their old dad would fade over time and I could be at least a part of their lives.

As we go ahead, you'll understand why I say that hope is not something I cling to in their regard any longer.

Which doesn't mean I'm beyond fantasising about receiving both their forgiveness and their understanding.

Our dreams, I say with confidence, are the last things to go.

Well, along with oxygen I suppose.

Anyway, if my life had gone to shit with my own help it was about to turn full sewage-farm when my supervisor at the office noticed how I was struggling with my neck problems - though I can be forgiven for not knowing this at the time.

"You need an Asian-Massage," said, Jeri, my middle-aged and happily married female boss - a boss, in my new bachelor existence, I wasn't above fantasising over in the privacy of my own bedroom; though I knew I'd never act on my lust for her even in the unlikely event of such an opportunity occurring.

My eyes raised suggestively at this and she gave me a smirk to match the mock disgust of her shaking head.

"Get your pervo thoughts out the gutter, Matthew," she scolded. "I'm talking about a proper massage. My Tom went that route after he put his neck out on the tee. Couldn't shake the pain until he had a course with a trained therapist... Without frills."

"Yeah, he mentioned that was what he told you," I teased with a smile. As well as being my boss, Glenda and I had mixed socially with Jeri and Tom before my cock got me into trouble and I still met up with them for a drink occasionally even with my wife out of the picture. Explaining why I was comfortable yanking her chain.

Ignoring my ribbing, she handed me a card as I thanked the heavens she had forgiven me my indiscretion with another co-worker.

A co-worker whose vengeful and rather large husband had - again understandably - insisted she change jobs after beating the tar out of me; and one, fortunately, Jeri had never professed to have any time for.

"When you get sick of the pain and being a prick, make an appointment," she advised.

And now it was her turn to rib me:

"Who knows? Just because Tom didn't pursue those 'frills' there's no reason you can't dip your, hmm... toe ...in the, er, water."

Her expression mocked me playfully as she finished in a sorry impersonation of an upper-class English accent:

"Be a nice change from the old hand, what?"

Then, with the inevitable middle-finger extended, she returned to her office.

Laughing, despite a reminder from my neck as it swivelled to follow her gorgeous and unattainable legs along the corridor, I looked at the card.

In truth, my neck really was getting worse and I wasn't about to spend any more on chiropractors than I already had for no appreciable improvement. I was already laying out considerable sums for painkillers that just might prove addictive down the line, so why not give the massage route a try?

Anyhow, moving on: given my sense of loss at the divorce and the discomfort in my neck, it's no surprise that I wasn't much interested in checking out the dating-scene for divorced guys in their mid-forties like myself, though I did make it a point go out after work a few nights a week and have a couple of beers and some shots with some of my co-workers. And Tom when he was free and Jeri had one of her Pilates classes.

It was on one such evening, having left a new bar the guys were trying out, that I saw a neon sign that seemed to ring a bell.

I stood before it puzzled for a few moments, then, fishing out my wallet, I took the card Jeri had given me and matched the print with the neon sign in big bold letters I was stood under: