Tom let his foot off the gas; the car then slowed rapidly to below a hundred miles per hour.  His fear evaporated, his breathing returned to normal and the tingling left his hands.  There were no commuters at that early hour and he had waited until the last possible moment before veering away from the abutment.  He was on a high, the sudden relief from the pressure caused by last night’s row with his wife, Alice, leaving him in a state of well-being.
    
Trouble was Alice had suffered sexual abuse as a child, which had caused her to adopt a neurotic, touchy-feely manner that most suitors had found disturbing.  But not Tom; he perceived the behavior as simply flirtatious, and assumed that it would naturally end once they were committed.  So he asked her to marry him.  Big mistake.  Soon after their marriage came the first demonstration of her proclivity, which brought his incipient paranoia to the surface, and they had their first fight.
    
The argument that led him to confront the abutment had been typical:
        “How can I think otherwise,” he said.  “Like that guy I got to check the wiring.  You couldn’t keep your hands off him!”
        “I did nothing wrong,” she said, sounding hurt.
        “When you took his coat, I saw you touch his bare arm.”  
        “I meant nothing by it.”  Her expression was grim.
        “No? Then why your smile of approval when he palmed your ass?”
        “I don’t know!” she protested, sounding small and confused.  “I don’t know!” 
        “You think I’m stupid enough to believe that?  That smile was a come-on and even if not, that’s how he took it.”
    
Alice stood in the driveway, waiting for her taxi.  It was Sunday and she was dressed in her business suit, bags packed and ready to fly off on a three-city speaking engagement.  Tom had just finished a harangue that had followed her outside.  Though he tried to hide it, she caught his anguished expression, evidence that he was still caught up in its throes.
        “Tom,” she said fiercely.  “Stop this!”
        Then, without a word, she turned and walked briskly to the waiting cab.  The driver took her bags and she was gone.
        Tom stood there feeling foolish, the parting  just another disaster, his emotions simply too hard for him to handle.
    
Sunday afternoon, one week later: Tom was out front polishing the hood of his car when her taxi pulled up, and there she was, paying the driver. 
        “Glad to see you sweetie,” he said, hefting her bags before the transaction had been completed. 
        Business done, she turned on her heel without a word and made for the front door.
        “Hey!  Hey!” he said, following her.  “You can’t treat me like this.”
        Suddenly remembering that she had just crossed three time zones on her flight back from San Diego, he decided to hold his tongue.
        She breezed in, stowed her coat, and was halfway up the stairs before he realized he was being left alone.  Tightening his grip on the bags, he followed her to the bedroom.
        “What’s up?” he asked.
        “What do you mean?”
        She started to undress and practically ignored him.
        “You damn well know what I mean.”  He was beginning to lose it again.

        “Look, Tom.  I’m tired. This is my home, isn’t it?  So I’m back.  That’s it for now.”
        He pushed her onto the bed.
        “No.  That’s not it…” he growled, glowering over her.
        She clutched her clothes and cringed.
        “Don’t give me this shit!  I’ve never hit you!  Never harmed you.  But you’re pushing me to the limit.  Who was it this time?”
        “I’ve told you and told you!  I’ve never done it with anyone else!”
        Then it’s just plain hatred for me you’re showing. Why bother to come home?”
        “You can’t see it, can you?  I’m just plain exhausted and fearful of what to expect.”
        Though paranoia usually got the better of him, there were times he was introspective enough to see it and stop.  He suddenly felt deflated.
        Alice took advantage of the moment.  “Just leave me alone.  No, you don’t have to leave—just lay off.  I’m home, and for now, that’s as good as it gets.”
        At that faint hint of affection, he retreated downstairs.
       
Monday morning came, and as he drove to work, his speed increased with his anger.  A light rain was falling and he had to keep his eye on the road.  He maneuvered into the passing lane and, taking the expressway, he settled down to think. 
        I just don’t trust her. He remembered the incident with the electrician, which thrust him into a deeper state of despair.  Now may be a good time to end it.
       
He began a countdown, coldly calculating his approach, checking his speed and pouring on the gas.  No cars were about; overhead, the orange lights softened in the rain.  Leaving the blue haze of the city behind, he hit the straight doing ninety.  The windows fogged, leaving him cocooned with little of the real world intruding.  About then, he hit the chicane that he loved to speed through at one hundred and ten.
        The abutment lay ahead, invisible in the murk.
        Absorbed in the speed and critical conditions, and hardly aware of his intention, he was startled, puzzled and then terrified at what appeared before him.  He swerved dangerously from the target, his breath coming in great sobs as he let the car slow.  He had seen, for an instant, a car wrapped solidly around the concrete nose.
        Some other guy, he thought, with the same intent, had done it for real.
    
He drove on, badly shaken but no longer feeling isolated from the world around him. There was nothing he could do.  Soon the police would arrive and the gory business of removing the wreck would begin. With his mind in furious turmoil, he coasted onto the river road and headed for home. 
        Tom never entertained his fancy again.  
    
    
   
                         About The Author
  
        Stan Long writes from Ontario, Canada.  He is father to a fourteen-year old daughter and also a writer in solitary, whose sundry pieces are published here and there.  His first short fiction: “Dreaming of Elspeth,” was published last spring in the magazine, All Rights Reserved.   His singular achievement: a collection of poems—The Georgian Bay Suite—published in chapbook form.
    
    
    
    
                                           Copyright © Stan Long