“I am going to fucking kill him!”

            I slump down in my seat and feel the eyes of everyone in the restaurant burning into my ever-reddening face.

            “Shhhh!” I hiss. “People can hear you!”

            “Well, let them hear!” shrieks Gwen. “Let them hear how I am going to beat down your little bitch of a husband for being a lying, cheating, asshole!”

            You’ve got to give her credit. Gwen is the most fiercely loyal human being I have ever known. She will rip apart anyone who hurts someone she loves. And if you want to see her grind someone into a bloody pulp, then watch her go after any man who has wronged a woman! At a house party in college, she saw this really greasy, creepy guy smack this poor shy girl on the ass as he walked by her, for no other reason than to be a jerk… and even though Gwen had never met the girl, she stormed up and told him what was what with a tirade including such treasured insults as “Hairy-backed, knuckle-dragging, walking version of a flaccid penis”… and concluded with her actually slapping his balls, replicating the way he had smacked that girl’s butt, as she cooed, “Yeah, ya like that baby?”

            It was epic. I loved her a lot before, but after witnessing that, I eternally pledged my allegiance in her name.

            Of course as I am remembering this, I see her stand up and grab her purse, and it occurs to me that she might be setting off to kill my husband.

            “Oh Gwen, sit down,” I sigh. “You can’t murder him right now, he is with the kids.”

            She stares me down for a second, then returns to her seat. “Fine,” she sulks. “Tomorrow I am ripping his nuts off and mailing them overnight express to that slutty, fat whore that he kissed.”

            “I never said she was fat,” I say.

            “For the purposes of this conversation, she is fat.” She grins and flags down the waiter. “We’re going to need a bottle of vodka here and some shot glasses, please.”

            The waiter trots off to fetch the fixings to create tomorrow’s hangover, and I hang my head. “This sucks.”

            The last few days have been utter crap. Derek has been on his super fantastic, most bestest behavior, and I have been uncharacteristically silent. I am all too aware that if I let myself talk, I will most definitely start in a high decibel. I have tried to keep the kids out or busy during the day so that they don’t have to see me visually destroying their father, and as soon as they are off to bed, I go and hide out in our room by myself. He figured it out after the second night that he wasn’t welcome to join me.

            He has been walking on the most delicate of eggshells, doing everything he can think of to show me how sorry he is– doing the dishes, the laundry, even making the back door stop that evil squeaking noise that has been eating at my eardrums ever since we moved in. He always looks at me wide-eyed, and looking very fragile and always on the verge of tears. Things are just dreadful. I want to scream at him, I want to cry, I want to make it all go away, but instead I have been walking around this iron-clad vault, with no emotions leaking through in any regards to him. My stomach aches for Abby and Ollie. This has been a rough few weeks for all of us at home and it has to be especially hard on them. Of course when I think of the stress this must be causing them, it makes me all the more angry at Derek for all this nonsense.

            Tonight, I took a break from my own personal hell and came out for my much needed and greatly anticipated night out with Gwen. I had planned on making it through dinner before spilling my drama, but she spotted my mood before I even climbed out of the car. She persisted and repeatedly shooed our poor waiter off, telling me that she would make that poor man run laps if she had to, until I would tell her what was causing the storm-cloud over my head. The death threats to Derek obviously came post-reveal.

            “So what are you going to do now?” she demands as the vodka arrives. “Are you going to kick him out? Or better yet, do you want me to remove him for you?”

            “No,” I sigh. “I don’t know. It’s not like he slept with her, or anything.” I see her blood pressure rise and feel a volcanic eruption of Girl power shooting my way. “That’s not what I mean. It sucks yeah, and he is a total ass for the kiss, but honestly, I am more upset that he was treating me like a friggin’ shoe for the last few weeks.”

            “God, he is such a fucking dick!” She yells, slamming down a shot.

            “Jeez, there are kids in here, you know?” I whisper.

            She looks down at my full shot glass and then at me, then the glass, and then me again. Yuck. I pick up the vodka and knock it back hard, coughing as it burns the whole way down. On the plus side, my sinuses seem much clearer!

            “Fine, I won’t yell as much, but really, you must want to just kill him so bad.”

            “Honestly…” I sigh as she pours us another round, “…part of me wants to beat him senseless, but the rest of me is having a hard time watching my husband walk around like a sad puppy, looking all broken. I just want to hug him. I hate seeing him so sad.”

            “Yeah, well what about you?” she starts to yell but quiets down. “How about how sad he has you feeling? Don’t let him guilt you into letting his sorry ass off the hook.”

            I half-heartedly nod. She is right, she usually is about this sort of thing, but that doesn’t make it any less torturous to walk around with things the way they are.

            As she pours the third batch of drinks, I feel I am in for a long night. Not that I’ll remember any of it.

             The next morning I had to scrape my eyelids off my eyes, and had to work very hard to free my tongue, that had at some point during the night fused to the rough of my mouth. Sure, the room was spinning, and it felt like there was a pickaxe lodged in my temple, but it was all worth it, because although the specifics escape me, I am sure that last night was fun and productive. Yeah. It had to be.

            When I came downstairs this morning, I drug my feet to the fridge where I proceeded to drain two-thirds of a half gallon jug of orange juice. Then I tried to think of the fractional value of what two-thirds of a half gallon would be, and I think I burst a neuron or something and I gave up.

            While it was a genuine miracle that I was able to get up and moving in the first place, it was unexplainable as to how Gwen showed up to my door looking absolutely no worse for the wear, and not at all incapacitated by the morning sunlight. Had she not been kind enough to bring me a giant coffee, I would have had to hate her for her resiliency. We are the same age, so how is it she looks April Fresh after our bender and I look like something that was scraped off a shoe onto the sidewalk? Someday, once that neuron repairs itself, I will have to ask her for her secrets.

            Sometime during the night before, I had ranted about the uptight women that I was forced to mingle with in Soccer Mom Hell, and her eyes lit up at the thought of coming to give them her patented critique in hopes of cheering me up.    Through the course of the conversation, I may or may not have mentioned Coach Patrick Dixon, and it is possible I might have hinted at him being somewhat attractive. That sealed the deal. With a firm guarantee that she would see not only a good-looking and sweaty man, but also a bunch of prudish chicks throwing themselves all over him, it was more than she could resist, and that is why she was dancing through my house at an unholy hour, chirping to the kids and helping get them packed up for school and soccer camp.

            Once set up on the sidelines with my fragile eyes hidden behind sunglasses and my city-dwelling pal by my side, I was wishing I could go home and nap, when I saw the familiar sight of every woman around me perk up like hunting dogs having caught the scent of some delicate prey.

            “Oh fuck me, let that be the Coach guy...” was Gwen’s eloquent observation.

            Patrick strolled up to me, as he had every morning,     handed me his notebooks and paperwork, and dropped off the girls’ gear.

            “Wow, Ellie, are you okay?” he asked as he stretched and peeled off his jacket. “You don’t look like you are feeling too good.”

            “Top notch,” I replied and gave my coffee a confident raise. “This is -”

            “Hi, I’m Gwen,” she jumped up inches in front of him, and thrust her hand into his to shake. “I’ve heard all kinds of neat things about you.”

            He looked a little amused by the overly-confident, undeniably aggressive woman I had brought with me, but as always, he was unfazed beyond the slightest smirk. “Well, I’m sure if you heard it from Ellie it was all lies, right?” he smiled at me. “Nice to meet you, and Ellie, you take it easy if you aren’t feeling well, alright?”

            I nod, and as he walks away, Gwen mime-grabs his butt. She’s awesome.

            “Oh my God Ellie, he is freaking gorgeous!” she squealed when she sat down. “I swear I want to smother him in hummus and pretend I’m a pita chip!” She was fanning herself and peeling off her own jacket. “A naughty pita chip...”

            I was in love with the contrast she provided to the mundane female presence I had gotten used to, her with her tight, low-rise jeans, topped with a cropped mens vest over a white tank top. Her look perfectly conveyed the message that she had strutted over from New York. There was nowhere else you would ever think a gal like her would be from. She was a real shock to the women beside us, who spent a good chunk of time whispering about Gwen under their breath. She showed her lack of caring by periodically shouting encouragements to the children, and quipping about the contents of Patrick’s shorts and the ice bras that women were wearing.

            Now at the end of practice, the girls are bouncing back to their mothers, and Coach Dixon is trying to head my way to gather his things, but he is being practically tackled by various mothers who have made it a habit to find any single random thought or question to make conversation with him. Marissa Glover today was trying very hard to find out his preference for apples. His awkward smile, and her rapid shifting of weight from one foot to another has got Gwenny in stitches next to me. I am still trying to get my eyes to not treat the sun as the enemy.

            “No. really, Golden Delicious are really good,” he says, trying to maneuver away. “Yeah, they’re fine.”

            “Well, what are your thoughts on Fuji?!” she squeals in a high, strangled voice. “I could do Red Delicious if you’d prefer!”

            “Whatever you think will be great!” he called behind him as he makes his way over. “Why is she asking me what kind of apples I want the girls to eat for their snack?” he whispers to me as he bends down to pack up his things.

            “You’d be surprised how seriously us housewives take our fruit,” I deadpan. “If she ever asks you about citrus fruits, you better play along, or she’ll rip your face right off.”

            “Thanks for the warning,” he grins. “So you’ve brought quite the cheerleader with you, haven’t you?” he nods towards Gwen, who has somehow maneuvered herself in her folding chair to look seductive, legs crossed, arm draped over the back. I try not to giggle.

            “You think my cheers are nice,” she purrs sexily, “You should see my herkies and high kicks,” Okay, now I’m giggling.

            “That’s um,” he stuttered. My goodness, she has managed to embarrass him. “Maybe some other time, perhaps?” As his cheeks turn red, I marvel at how gifted she is.

            I start to stand up, silently begging my legs to work with me, and begin packing our things up to take to the car, while Abby prances with her little friends and Gwen oozes sex into a drippy puddle near the Coach. I thought I had gotten some looks of wished death when I was named Assistant Coach, but boy howdy, there aren’t words for the level of sheer hate pouring over onto Gwen. I love that she is genuinely impervious.

            “Hey, Ellie, do you have some time?” Patrick asks as he finishes putting the balls in his bag.

            Yeah, that’s always going to make me snicker.

            “Depends, I guess,” I say. “How much time and for what?”

            “We need to give the girls their positions tomorrow,” he stands up next to me. “And to do that, we actually have to assign them positions.”

            “Okay, so, wait, what?” I rub my forehead.”What do you need me to do?”

            “Well, I know it’s last minute, but I was hoping we could take the afternoon to discuss where each kid’s strengths are, and where they would be best suited on the field. I figure I know their skills on the field and the actual positions best, but you know the children themselves better and you would know which moms would physically hurt me if I don’t give their daughters a prime spot.”

            “Oh, yeah, well,” I search for any excuse to go home and pop some aspirin and perhaps get a little sleep. “Oh! The kids! I have to take my kids home and well, you know how it goes.”

            “Oh, well, I guess I can just do my best then,” he smiles and starts to gather up his things.

            “Ellie, I can take the kids!” Gwen snaps up beside me and announces this at a sonic-boom volume level.

            “What?” I squint, half deaf. “What are you talking about?”

            “I can take Abby and pick up Oliver and spend the afternoon with them!” She has a huge, conspiratorial, Cheshire Cat grin.

            “Oh, yeah, I couldn’t ask you to do that,” I say, giving her a look of mild horror, and desperation.

            No, it’s totally my pleasure! You guys clearly have work to do!” She is quickly grabbing the Mommy Carry-All and trying to yank my car keys out of my hand. “Hey, Abby! You want to spend the afternoon with Aunty Gwen don’t you babe?” she calls across the field.

            My daughter comes bounding over and jumps next to her Aunty. “Yay! Really? What are we going to do?”

            “Whatever you want sweetie!” my friend exclaims. “We’ll pick up your brother and we’ll do awesome stuff all day, how’s that sound?”

            “Is Mommy coming?” Abby smiles to me.

            “No honey, she has to do some work, but she’ll meet us later at home, okay?”

            “I will?” I whisper sharply.

            “Okay, bye Mommy!” Abby chirps as she hops over to give me a kiss before she turns and runs toward our car.

            “Great!” Patrick pipes in. “So, I guess I am giving you a ride? We can grab some lunch while we work, that alright with you?”

            “Um, wait, I’m not sure...” I sputter.

            “She’ll meet you at your car!” Gwen calls as she drags me away.

            Patrick waves as I am pulled off by Gwen for lord knows what.

            “What the heck are you doing?” I whine.

            “I am helping you to spend some one on one time with the yummy man, hot stuff,” She is hushed, but giddy with excitement, and also trying to slather lip gloss on me.

            “No, seriously, what the hell?”

            She stops and looks me square in the eye. “Look, you have a dumbass husband who did something royally fucked up,” her tone is even, and she has my full attention, if only because she is rarely this serious. “You won’t leave him, you won’t let me kill him, and you know you can’t just let it go.”

            “Okay,” I am intrigued. ”Go on.”

            “So wouldn’t it drive Dick Wad Derek eleven kinds of jealous to know that you spent the whole day out by yourself with the sexy Soccer God over there?” Ah, now I see. “It’s not like he can say anything after what he did, but you know that because he is feeling so guilty it will make him wonder if you are going to get back at him by having a little fun of your own!”

            “Isn’t that kind of mean?”

            “Fuck no!” I can tell she wants to shake me a little bit. “I’m not saying bang the guy over club sandwiches, but just by spending time with him, it will drive Derek nuts! It is the perfect revenge! He can know how horrible it feels to not know if he can trust his spouse, but you still take the high road by not being a big ol’ slut!” She leans in and smirks. “Plus, you get to hang out with that,” she motions towards the parking lot and we both turn to see Coach Dixon loading up his always shining, black, SUV. “I mean, damn, if you don’t go, I will, baby.”

            I think about it for a moment. She makes a fine point that this might be the perfect way to exact a little revenge and gain some of my dignity back, although I hate the idea of playing games like this, and it does seem really petty and childish.

            I am about to call it all off, when an image of my husband kissing another woman flashes into my brain, making my heart skip and my stomach lurch. It has never failed to shock me just how much it hurts to think about it.

            “I’m in.”

            “Hell yeah you are!” Gwen pumps her fist in the air, and then gives me a sporty and reassuring pat on the ass. “Go have a little fun, got it?”

            She picks up the chairs and the Mommy Carry-All and winks as she walks away.

            I stand here, shaking off the image of Derek and the slutty, fat whore, and wonder if this really is the thing that could make me feel better, the thing that could even the score, without having to do wrong things of my own or letting Gwen unleash her fury upon him in a room filled with jagged objects.

            I start walking towards Patrick, and I feel confident in the choice. “Good clean revenge,” I think.

            After all, it’s not like anything would ever happen between he and I.

            Yep. Good clean revenge with the Sexy Man.