Or Was It?

I tore my hair in clumps leaving raw skin and drops of blood which began

to course down my worry-creased forehead in a stream of wetness. I was tortured by visions of Patsy Cline’s song “Crazy” in which she laments being left for someone new and being crazy for crying. I had been wailing for so long and so many hours that my face looked like a balloon twisted in a caricature of what I vaguely remembered. I was amazed that I was still in one piece because I felt utterly unglued but at the same time, I felt as if I were in a straightjacket crushing my innards. Why oh why did he leave me? I had always been there for him – soothing his brow, listening to his problems, romping in bed with him for hours, lending him money – the list goes on.

His new girlfriend was plump and simpering and had a brain of mush. She must have given him something that I could not, I reasoned when I was being coherent, which was not often the last few days. I felt like a psycho, consumed by my feelings of lost passion and bereft at his lack of honesty. I knew that I had to get hold of myself before I went down the path of dementia into an abyss I couldn’t escape. Deranged, crazed, bonkers, unzipped - was this who I was becoming?

When I stopped my sobbing for a breath of air, I realized that this was not who I was. It would be more positive to channel my unbalanced persona in a different direction. It was payback time! He was picking up the rest of his clothes and his mattress next week. I forced a smile when I remembered how narcissistic he was about his expensive collection of designer shoes. I began to skip in rising glee toward the closet, gathering his shoes and carrying them into the kitchen. I just had the craziest idea!

I laughed wickedly, as I opened the cans of tuna fish, draining the juice into a large bowl. (I’d save the tuna to eat later) Opening the cupboard, I saw the pastry brush which was an enormous part of my plan. I dipped the brush into the tuna juice and basted the insoles of his shoes copiously with generous amounts of the liquid. I was on a roll! Why stop here? I went into the bedroom that we once had shared and split the seams slightly on the underside of the mattress. I drizzled the remainder of the tuna fish juice into the cottony insides and sewed the opening shut. My endeavors had plenty of time to ripen before he arrived.

Next week came and I could see that he was shocked to see how happy I looked. He had so thoroughly torn me apart that he couldn’t believe that I would ever heal. But I was feeling wonderful, knowing what was in store for him. He didn’t notice the smell which was beginning to intensify. He gathered his clothes and dragged his mattress to his car to take back to his new apartment and his new lover.

A month later, I received a distressed call from my ex. The new flavor of the month had left him and he wanted me back. He lamented, “She said she couldn’t stand the smell of my feet and the stench of me on the mattress. She kept buying me soap, deodorants and detergents but she claimed it didn’t work. You don’t think I have a foul odor, do you?

“I think you stink in many ways,” I answered with a smug smile on my face, “and I will never allow your foulness in my life again.”

Revenge was sweet as I savored the outcome of my crazy idea. Or was it?