As my readers know, my future ex-husband has been spending time in a place called Queens. He goes there to visit an old girlfriend of mine named Lysette who just had a baby. He claims that when he enters her apartment, he feels a sense of calm he’s never felt before.
Some women might be insulted by this situation, but personally I’m more mystified than anything. Why would a person willingly subject themselves to spending time with something that spits up when they could be eating foie gras brule at Jean Georges?
No, it’s not these baffling excursions that got to me.
It’s also not the fact then whenever he returns from visiting Lysette, he starts talking about wanting a baby of his own. When he and I met, he was even more virulently against children than I was. It’s one of the qualities that attracted me in the first place. What woman wouldn’t fall for that?
No, readers. None of these infractions put me over the edge. It’s that when he got home, I told him about the phone call I’d just had with Daddy, how he’d accused me of poisoning Sabina, and how my Opana Xanax cocktail wasn’t working anymore.
I also told him that the detective in charge of the investigation into uncle Myron’s death had left a message informing me that a new piece of evidence had been discovered and that he needed to schedule a meeting with me and my lawyer right away.
Finally, I told him that Charles had called and told me that something unthinkable had happened to my portfolio and could I please come to see him tomorrow. I begged him to tell me, but he just said I should stop being histrionic in spite of my Levantine blood.
I told him all this. And do you know what he said to me? Go ahead. Take a guess.
“Mercury is in retrograde, Jasmine.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” I said.
“Just lay low for another day,” he said. “It will all be over soon.”
And that’s how it happened. I punched my future ex-husband in the face. I know any of you would have done the same.