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Today was the day. Today was the day she’d get her revenge on Constance. Even though Nicholas and Constance had divorced years ago, Tilda still harbored hostility, jealousy, and rage against the now middle-aged ex-wife who had so dramatically ruined her life.
Tilda drank her Red Bull and played with her curls as she continued down the highway. She fiddled with the radio dials until she found a heavy metal station. She smiled in satisfaction and turned the sound up as loud as she could, her anger matching that of the metal music fueled by the energy drink. The drums and electric guitars raged and screeched in her head, drowning out the voices and filling her with more hate and anger. She closed her eyes and imagined killing Constance, swiping a guardrail on the side of the highway in the process. Her eyes jerked open as she slammed on the brakes and left the vehicle to assess the damage. It was just a small dent, but Wilbur would have a fit. He loved his old Chevy truck. It had been his friend through thick and thin. She shook her head and got back into the truck, and drove at a slower, more respectable speed. The last thing she needed to do was attract the attention of the police. That’d really be bad.
Five minutes later, Tilda slowed down and turned off the highway as she carefully maneuvered her truck down a secondary road that approached the expensive west end subdivision where Constance still lived with her two children, Nicholas Jr. and Sarah. Nicholas Jr. was the apple of his dad's eye, “the fruit of his loins,” as Nicholas would say. Sarah, well she really didn't think Nicholas liked his daughter because he considered her to be plain and frumpy. Unfortunately, the twelve-year-old hadn’t inherited either of her parents’ good looks, but she had inherited her father's intelligence. Of course, Nicholas never looked for intelligence in a woman, except in her of course. Just look at this new wife, she was dumb as a doorknob, but all the men ogled her. Once again, a wave of hatred surged through Tilda’s body, but she reminded herself her hate was only with Constance. She was the woman who had ruined her life.
Tilda turned her radio down as she entered the sedate, gated community and drove down the familiar tree-lined boulevard toward Nicholas's old home. She smiled to herself as she remembered the few times she and Nicholas had made love in the beautifully appointed guest room on the second floor. She had wanted to make love in the bed he shared with Constance, but Nicholas would never allow it. In some ways, he seemed to consider his bedroom with Constance as some sort of holy place or sacred temple when all Tilda had wanted to do was desecrate it. Nicholas always laughed at Tilda because he wanted to “have sex,” a phrase Tilda abhorred. She and Nicholas never just “had” sex, rather they created beautiful music, a symphony when they were together. When she’d told this to Nicholas, he’d laughed at her and shook his head. For him, she was nothing but a sex object, a sex toy who still looked good. Tilda admitted this to herself because the Red Bull and metal music had made her brave. She knew he didn’t love her, but she knew he needed her. Just look who he had called this afternoon to “take care of things.” She was addicted to him. Nicholas has it made with me, she thought as she cut down the radio.
The old Chevy with the freshly dented right bumper crept quietly along the streets filled with ivy-covered brick and stone two-story homes with snowmen in the yards, beautiful wreaths on the doors and late-model cars in all the driveways. Tilda had always scoped out the neighborhood and wondered what was happening behind all of the shuttered doors and draped windows. She pictured the life she’d always wanted – dinner in the dining room wearing her perfect string of pearls, beautiful children, and a beautiful home with a husband who loved her and not the impotent, religious fanatic with whom she lived. Wilbur, the man who watched her all the time and was unable to fulfill his manly duty, she thought in disgust.
Once again, she was crazed with jealousy and anger but steadied herself. She reached for her Glock in the console and stroked it fondly as she drove down the beautiful, high-end neighborhood.
I have work to do, she reminded herself as she parked several houses down and behind a garage at Dr. Dude’s old home.