Ad Nauseam - By C. W. LaSart Page 0,7

she needed a date and he seemed nice, if a little slow. He was also kind of cute in a devoted puppy sort of way. She stomped around the garage, her hands balled into fists, sweat from the hot afternoon collecting in the small of her back and under her breasts.

Slowing as the smell hit her, Charlene stopped and looked around. It smelled like sex, heavy and musky. It seemed to come from near the little vegetable garden Jimmy obviously spent much time in. Wrinkling her nose against the odor, she felt an electric jolt of arousal that started in her chest and shot like lightning to her groin. Charlene gasped aloud at the power of the sensation, her gaze falling upon something gleaming in the sun several yards away. Sweating profusely and taking small sips of air, Charlene approached the mound. The throbbing between her thighs was so deep that she ached to press herself against something, a fence post, anything, to relieve it.

A stained pair of men’s boxers lay crumpled on the ground, next to a pile of intestines. Part of a pale organ, heavily veined in blue, protruded from a hole in the ground that was easily the size of her thigh. Alarmed, but still painfully aroused, and now starting to feel light headed, Charlene inspected the heap of guts, nudging it with her foot, unmindful of the fact that she wore only a pair of flip-flops. Her mouth opened in an ooooh! of surprise.

Charlene’s foot began to tingle.

WIDOW

Dang it!

Susan swatted the back of her neck, responding to the sudden, searing pain. Her hand squashed something crunchy and soft. Sticky guts squirted between her fingers, causing her stomach to lurch. She slowly brought her hand up before her eyes.

Not a spider, anything but a spider, she thought.

She examined the crumpled black body and green gobs of insides stuck to her fingers. It was indeed a spider. Susan shuddered, repeatedly wiping her hand on a cardboard box to remove the mess.

The back of her neck still stinging, Susan slumped onto a nearby box. Tears filled her eyes.

I can’t even clean the basement without drama! she thought. Oh how Bill would chuckle at me if he could see this, crying over a spider bite.

Waves of revulsion and self-pity sent shivers through her body. Bill didn’t understand. He would never get it. He wasn’t a mother.

“It’s a clear cut case of Empty Nest Syndrome.” Bill had asserted in a smug tone that made Susan want to kick him in the shin. He’d been the first to notice the signs of depression as they had taken their toll on Susan, and he was quick to diagnose, as well. “You should find a hobby.”

For over twenty years, Susan had dedicated her life to the raising of their two children. Bill made enough money for her to stay home. Twenty-two years of cooking for, cleaning up after, and doing laundry for those children. Soccer games and dance classes, parent teacher conferences and school performances. She had wiped every nose, every tear, and their little butts when they were babies. Broken bones, first periods, first dates and first broken hearts had all been her domain.

Bill had dealt with none of it.

Their youngest daughter had followed in her sister’s footsteps and left for college a few months ago, leaving Susan with nothing to do and too much time on her hands. The big house and all its silence echoed faintly with memories. Her kids had been her whole life, and now she felt as empty as the house. She had nothing.

No purpose.

It became her mission. What will you do with yourself today, Susan? What is your purpose?

Bill had his purpose in every day life. Oh, sure he did. He had his job to go to five days a week with meetings and phone conversations. He had his football games on the weekends, which he watched while propped in his armchair relaxing after such a hard work week. He had his drinking as well, empty beer bottles and the occasional pint of hard stuff taking up more space in the garbage can lately. Of course, he also had that little slut at the office. The one he had been having an affair with for years.

Susan had known for a while now. The many nights that he worked late, only to come home smelling of perfume. Credit card receipts for mystery gifts that had never shown up under the Christmas tree. She hadn’t considered divorcing him. The