Molly, 40

Molly was crying again.
She did not realize she was doing so, but she was indeed crying again.
She sat at the hand carved teak and rosewood table in the kitchen.
In front of her, on the table, was a box of condoms (ribbed...for her pleasure), a large brick of pearl colored powder and a cell phone.
The cell phone was hers, but the condoms and the brick were not hers.
The box was missing eight condoms (all of them ribbed...for her pleasure) and the brick was missing most of one of its corners.
The number flashed through her head and her hand twitched, then lay still again.
She'd gotten that under control.
Fifty five minutes ago she had not had that under control and she had reached out, opened her phone and then dialed the number.
She'd done the same thing ten minutes before that.
But now, it was just a twitch.
And why did it need to be more?
Her name was "Cath" and she was a she.
Those were the facts that Molly knew about her.
The conjectures?
Well, that was different.
They tended to be a bit more...rampant.
But the most forefront of the conjectures involved two of the three items in front of her.
And they were all that mattered to Molly at this particular moment.
"No fair!" Timmy's voice drifted in from the TV room.
"No faaaair! No faaaaaaair!"
Oh Timmy...I could not agree with you more.
Things, in general, were just no fair.
No fair.
Molly hadn't noticed until just then that she had stopped crying.
Her face burned.
She wasn't angry though.
She was...galaxies beyond angry.
Light years beyond angry.
All she felt in her head now was ice.
An hour ago, it had been the goddamn Big Bang in there, but now?
Absolute zero.
Why am I thinking in science and space travel terms?
I haven't thought of the term "absolute zero" since high school chemistry.
Kelvin, right?
Zero degrees Kelvin was "absolute zero", when it was so cold that even cells stopped moving.
The word "cells" made her look at her cell phone again.
Which made her think of the phone number again.
And then the young, cheerful, curvy, firm breasted voice that had first spoken to her as a recording (Hey, this is Cath, leave a message and I'll call you back, 'kay?) and then as a real, live person (Hello?....Hell-oo?....Calvin?).
And if that weren't enough...a brick of heroin?
This is like a bad goddamn movie!
You find the condoms, tear the house apart for the mistress’s number and find...a brick of HEROIN?!
If she kept looking, she was bound to find a cache of weapons grade plutonium or a fucking duffle bag full of body parts, right?
She snorted laughter.
I am so stupid.
I am so stupid.
Eventually, she'd seen his cell phone bill lying in the mess of papers now littering the bedroom floor.
And then she'd found "Cath's" number.
Good, old (young) "Cath".
I suppose he thinks that now that I'm 40 and he's paid for everything he's allowed to fuck "Cath" whenever he likes.
He gave me a son to raise and a hand carved teak and rosewood table for the breakfast nook from which to raise him and so now he can go and plant his cock in that whore's tight, 18 year old ass.
And Molly was crying again.
So what now?
She had called him.
But he hadn't picked up.
And she had been SO ready.
Ready to tell him she knew.
Ready to ask for the divorce.
And then ready to hear him say she wouldn't do that to Tim.
She wouldn't hurt him.
And she wouldn't.
Not before this.
But now?
Now she didn't see Timmy.
She saw her husband's son.
Timothy Matthew Heller.
Named after his father.
Timmy who was already losing interest in her.
Timmy who would grow to need and want and care for her less and less every day.
Timmy who would grow closer to his father and further from his mother every day.
Timmy who would become his father more and more every day.
Timmy who would remind her of him every day.
Timmy who would cheat on his loving, dedicated wife and bring drugs into their home...
"NO FAIR!!!!"
Molly had stopped crying again.
She turned her head slightly towards the living room where Timmy was playing his goddamn Xbox.
The one that he'd bought him.
She picked up the cell phone in front of her and, although the number flashed through her head again, she held down the number 2 and watched as "Matt" popped up on her screen.
The phone rang once, twice, three times and then Matt's amiable, "nice guy" voice told her that he wasn't available right now (because he was balls deep in "Cath"), but to leave a message (just lying around with eight missing, Jesus, eight?!) or call this number if it's a medical emergency (like you can't keep your fucking dick in your pants).
And also to have a really great day (while he came inside some fucking young cunt...without condoms).
Her voice was iron in the winter.
"I know about 'Cath'. I know about the drugs. You have taken everything I care about from me. And now I am going to do the same to you."
She pressed the "End" button and hurled the phone across the kitchen where it bounced off the matching teak and rosewood cabinets and clattered to the imported Italian marble countertop.
Then she sat, motionless, waiting.
Waiting for her phone to ring and to hear Matt unsettled for once in his life.
Waiting for some voice in her head to tell her to calm down and that it wasn't the end of the world.
Waiting for something to stop her from doing what she was thinking of doing.
But there was nothing.
Nothing but the sound of her husband and "Cath" in her ears and the image of her husband and Cath" behind her eyes.
She looked at the brick on the table.
She looked at the dish drainer which held two large juice glasses.
"Timmy?" she said in a high, brittle voice, "You want some juice?"