Whore

WHORE  3: a venal or unscrupulous person

 Before  I told him my business, before he found out all that had been going on while he had been screwing around –how could he?- before he had a chance to call me a slut, I walked into his study, slammed the door and seethed. “You whore,” I said, “the two of you are whores. A whore and a whoremonger.” He looked at me over the top of his reading glasses, his hair gone gray and wrinkles crackling his face.

“Who are you raving about, if you don’t mind my asking?” he drawled, taking a sip of his whiskey, ice cubes tinkling for effect. He set the glass down and pulled a bag of dope out from the drawer.

“Put that away,” I hissed. The kids are finishing up their homework, and I’ll have to get dinner soon.” He slid the bag back under the notebooks and newspapers and reached for a Marlboro instead.

“What are you going on about, Cat?”

“I’ve just been by Barbara and Carl’s,” I said slowly. I watched his face stiffen just a bit. I walked over to where he sat and snatched up his whiskey. “They were not very neighborly towards me,” I said and took a sip of the sharp, cold liquid, then threw the entire glass in my husband’s face.

“Do you have any idea what the two of you did?” I asked, ignoring my own little secret for the time being. John rubbed his forehead where the tumbler had hit, then bent to retrieve the ice cubes and pick up any stray pieces of glass he could find. He would be stepping on them for weeks.

“I know what I did,” John says succinctly. “I know what Barbara did.” He stood for effect. “And I believe I know what you did.”

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