She lifted the smudged glass to her lips, stopped mid-raise with that familiar lopsided smile and whispered, “This is the last you’ll see of me.”
He didn't hear her of course. He was too busy in his self-absorbed world putting on his "I'm-All-That" attitude with some equally egotistical "Yeah well I'm-the-Bag-Of-Chips" BUSI-ness man. She didn't care. She had never cared about all that. At first he claimed he didn't either. He said, "You know how it is, babe. I halfta do that kind of stuff. "
Babe. That should've been her first clue. The way he called her Babe. Not endearing-like, but more Ownership-like. Property. That's what he thought she was. His Little Trophy.
Did he think she was stupid with her blond hair and big eyes and big boobs? What scientist determined there was no room left for a brain?
She had tried to leave before, but he managed to call her back - drag her back really. Threatening her in his "I'm not really threatening you" way. And kept her close by keeping control of all the money, all the credit cards, all the property. But this time? She had him. In his pea-brained, big-ego'd head, he had used his boat stats as his password. It wasn't hard to figure out - he bragged about the damned boat all the time. Did he think she didn't know about cookies and on-line banking and wire transfers? She checked the balances right before dinner as he swaggered around the house, puffing up this all important dinner meeting.
And now? She just smiled and took pleasure in the absolute power of telling him, right to his face, as she lifted the smudged glass to her lips, stopped mid-raise with that familiar lopsided smile and whispered, “This is the last you’ll see of me.”