Love & HPV
The fluorescent from a nearby streetlight cast eerie shadows across the chiseled contours of his handsome brown face making him look more like a villain in a superhero movie than just another cheating husband with a band.
Three am. I gripped the steering wheel and maneuvered the Taurus through scattered taillights on the 134, praying that the crunching sound under my bald tires was only loose gravel. Putting the car in park on the shoulder of the freeway, I took a deep breath, wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans, and turned to Steve who was staring in silent defiance through the front windshield. The fluorescent from a nearby streetlight cast eerie shadows across the chiseled contours of his handsome brown face making him look more like a villain in a superhero movie than just another cheating husband with a band.
“Is it Vasha?”
Steve snorted with disgust. “Vash isn’t the one you need to worry about.”
“Who then?” I asked, hysteria rising in my throat. “Who am I supposed to be worried about now?”
A big rig passed, the car shook from its velocity.
“This is really dangerous,” Steve said, leaning over and hitting the hazard button on the dash. Yellow staccato flashed to life around our car. “I don’t know who gave them to me. Okay?”
Okay? Tomorrow, I would need to get tested for the venereal disease of the 21st century, or risk dying of cervical cancer in ten years because my husband couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. “Sleeping with my own husband is more dangerous than sitting on the side of the freeway,” I laughed, and laughed and laughed until my fists found his body, and I hit and hit and hit until he grabbed my wrists, pulling me toward him in a hard kiss. I bit his lip. Steve yelped and pulled away.
“This relationship is toxic,” he said, wiping a spot of blood from his mouth. “Everybody says so.”
“Everybody in your band?” I asked, panting. “Or just everybody you’re fucking?”
He shook his head. “You’re crazy.”
And so, I opened the glove box, pulled out the .32 caliber and shot him. Dead.