Of Peacocks and Pomegranates

     I hold the hair between my thumb and index finger, stretching my arm as far away from my torso as my hours of yoga will allow. It gleams red in the sunlight from our bedroom window, a lustrous copper thread against the royal blue of the curtains we chose together. Just below it, my thousands of golden hairs swing across my naked breasts, a rich breastplate that defends me from the single repulsive red arrow shot by my rival. It has been some time since I had a rival -I suppose I should be grateful for that. The early days of our marriage were when he strayed most frequently. I would scream, he would apologize (or not), she would vanish, and things would be good for awhile. Until they weren't. Around and around we went.

     And now here we go again, the familiar sick drag of knowing that I'm not enough for him, will never be enough for him, rooting me into place in front of our extensive business wear closet. Zee's slightly-wrinkled grey button down hangs before me, and I can picture the redhead curling up into the shoulder, her single hair catching on the collar button and parting from her scalp with a slight pinch. I hope it hurt her, the bitch. Carelessly, I drop the thin strand of her DNA on the floor, wishing that she could be discarded just as easily. 

     I'll deal with Zee tonight. Until then, I have my own appointments to attend to. I snatch my custom pumps from the shoe shelf, the peacock feathers winking from the toes as I clasp my bra behind my back. Today of all days, I don't feel like seeing my clients. How is it, I wonder, that I am so good at counseling other couples through their marital problems when my own marriage has been falling apart for years? An even better question: why do I do it? We hardly need the money; Zee practically owns a goddamn airline. It's cost us enough time lost in arguing -everything from the prestige-based ad campaign (my idea, which he eventually lauded as "okay") to the lightening bolt logo (I thought it was stupid and childish. He kept it.). Of course, I know why I do it. I'm a marriage counselor for the affirmation, the rush of the grateful glances and prayerful praise. I, a millionaire ex-supermodel who most women would kill to be, am insecure. And as I apply my Pomegranate Power lipstick, I feel it.

     All day, I sit and half-listen to the yammering of my clients and offer fool-proof advice as I mull over my own blindness. I should have known he was cheating. He's taken to calling me "Sissy" to my face, which he knows I hate, and in front of other people, it's been "Her." Close enough to my actual name, but it's somehow worse. Plus, he's begun joking about our age difference again. He's never meant "Cougar" and "Golden Oldie" to be flattering. Names have power, and Zee knows that better than anyone. So now he's gone and found himself some twenty something redhead whore with daddy issues to stroke his grey-streaked beard.

     I'm drinking Nectar Moscato in long draughts when I hear Zee circling the drive that night. Garage door opening, I finish my third glass. Car door slamming, I pour another. He comes into the entryway whistling Led Zeppelin, I throw the empty bottle, and it shatters against the marble floor. His footsteps pause. I smile maliciously. 

     "Sissy?" he calls, and my husband steps into our kitchen, grey eyes concerned, grey beard perfectly arranged, red hair on his collar. 

     "Zee." I stare at him, face blank, carefully uncaring. "How long have we been together?"

      He gazes back at me for a full second, glances at the shattered wine bottle, the full glass in my hand, back at my face, eyes moving in a circle. Around and around we go. With an uncertain half smile, he says, "Eons." He's actually trying to joke his way out of this.

     I set my jaw. "Fine. Since you don't want to answer that one seriously, here's another one: in the many, many years we've been married, how many mistresses have you had?"

     Finally, I see what I'm looking for: anger. Deep in his eyes, a storm begins to brew. "How did you find out?"

     "Well would you listen to that! Cutting right to the chase are we? Maybe you've learned something after all!" I stride toward him, and he puts his hands up, palms out, as if he's going to push me. When I'm still an arm's length away, I stop, reach out, and pluck the new hair from his collar. I hold it aloft as I did with the first one this morning, and it hangs between us. An indictment, a trial, and a conviction rolled into a single copper strand.

     He sighs, "Sissy-"

     "STOP CALLING ME THAT! You know I hate that name!" I roar at him, pulling back my arm to strike.

     He catches my wrist easily and hisses into my face, "Fine. Hera, what do you want me to say? That I'm bored? That it's been decades since I've strayed? That I'm sick of playing the business man, and I want to have sons and daughters to fight in another great war? Because all of it is true. I'm sick of this life, I want the excitement and sacrifice and adoration of the old days, and if I can't have it, the least I can do is find a beautiful mortal to make me feel like a god again." 

      Static crackles between his beard and my hair, and for the first time in decades, I feel like the goddess I am as my golden strands draw his face down to mine. I lean forward and whisper against his mouth, "Zeus, my lord, my brother, my husband. If you want to begin the world anew, say the word. If you want to force them to bow before us once more, I will stand by your side. But if another woman catches your eye, I will personally transform her into a beast of burden. I will slay her, and you will find yourself chewing her sweet flesh for your evening meal."