Well she was an American girl

Raised on promises

She couldn't help thinkin' that there

Was a little more to life

Somewhere else

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, "American Girl"

I watch the phone. It is an unparalleled waste of time, but it is a fun exercise in seeing how long I can possibly sit and stare at an inanimate object. I do it all the time; time never passes faster.

I move first and the number of the lawyer's office in my address book pops out and me, and I want to call. I do. I must. But God knows that the messages from my brain are not making it to my fingers. Move, damn it! Move!

I want to scream out loud because of the sheer frustration that accompanies the thought I can't. The phone dares me to continue moving. It dares me to finish my deed. It taunts me and I contemplate throwing it out the window. That would get James' attention.

The romantic in me yells with all its heart "he loves you! He really does love you! He wouldn't have married you if he didn't." And it's the proud feminist in me that shouts with equally brainy venom, "he wouldn't cheat on you if he loved you. You don't need any man to make you feel worth it."

It's a pity that the romantic's version is so sugarcoated.

I wonder if it's time that I believe what I saw instead of refuting it with so many powerful excuses and reasons that he wouldn't do anything to hurt me. But does seeing something make it true? Does the truth reside in the lies that he tells me to cover up for the hurt he causes me?

I think about seeing him, sitting there, stroking her hair so gently and then moving down to her stomach. Soft, gentle caresses. I stood at the door for a good five minutes before he noticed my gaping mouth and accusing eyes. He jumped up and the woman's brown hair was disturbed.

"He's a bastard."

"Cheat!"

"He's so not worth it."

All my friends' accusations pile into one flaming heap of angry words. None of them make me happy.

I can stand the whispers about James' affairs with the nurses because I know he would never stoop that low (nurses are fabulous people, but James is attracted to powerful women—that's how he got me, Miss Über-Brilliant Realtor)…and James' reputation means more to him than to anything else in the world—including me. He cleans that reputation and polishes it until it gleams—perfection takes practice.

He tells me that her name is Dr. Allison Cameron (after I walk out and call her a slut, but before I come back and call her a home-wrecker.) She's an immunologist and worked for House. I laugh when he comes up with excuses every morning just to come home late at night. Hypocrisy is an interesting virtue.

The mask of docility I wear around the house disappears every time I think about her. Allison Cameron. Even her name sounds sweet. He always wants to explain the reasons why she laid on our couch that night, but I never let him. Things are rocky lately and with House's death James relegates himself to sitting in front of the television with a beer in hand watching old game shows rerun on Game Show Network. He plays along to 30-year-old Match Games and screams at Richard Dawson on Family Feud.

It's been three weeks since House's death and I cannot stand the man James has become. It's not only the woman lying on my couch a week ago, but also he fact that he never attempts to carry on discussions anymore. He used to chide me for not starting conversations, but now he doesn't even bother to talk to me unless it's a remark like "pass the salt."

So, it's led me here to this phone, reaching for the receiver. I want to talk to someone, tell them how he's been lately. Divorce is not an option I want to pursue, but it is one I must. He makes his bed every day and sleeps in it every night.

The phone rings and I leap on it. Maybe it's James—maybe I can make these divorce thoughts go away.

"Hello."

"Um, I think I have the wrong number. Is this James Wilson's residence?"

It's a female voice and my head drops to my free hand. I cringe at the feminine nuances to the voice and wish that this were a dream.

"Yes, who is this?"

"I'll just call back later."

"Allison Cameron," I smirk into the phone and massage my eyebrows with my free hand.

"Mrs. Wilson, look, I'm—"

"Sleeping with James. I know, but do you have to call here and gloat about it?" I ask with bitterness. She has no right to call here.

"Look, I was just calling to find out if Ja—Dr. Wilson made it home all right. He left work early and he seemed upset. Is he okay?"

"James is not home. But you should know that better than anyone else? How do like making love to my husband. Is it delicious? Does he care for you?" I snarl. So the feminist has won, I think to myself.

"Listen, I don't know what you think James and I are doing, but I'm not sleeping—"

"Screwing."

"—him. I would never do that. He's a married man."

"You're too…naïve…to lie."

"And what's your problem? Are you too bitter to listen to James explain why he spends his time with me?"

"And why would that be?"

"N-nothing. I'm sorry I even called. Goodbye."

The line clicks dead and I hang the phone up before savagely grabbing it again. I look down at the address book, pick up the phone, and start dialing the lawyer's number. The home-wrecker's phone call is the final note in this melancholy piece.

"Hello, I'm looking for Fred Young. It's Julie Wilson."

I wait to be transferred.

"Hey, Fred? Julie Wilson I was wondering if…hold on a minute, please."

My voice trails off as the door opens and James' sad eyes meet mine.

"James, the home-wrecker called; call her back."

His mouth opens to respond, but I clear my throat and continue talking to the

lawyer.

"Sorry, Fred. I was just wondering if we could have a talk about making up some divorce papers."