TODD IS NOT A GOOD MAN
Todd is not a good man.
He's not even a real man, according to his ex-wife. She would often start her sentences with “if you were a real man.”
What is a real man? Is he a real man now, waiting for “paid company” in a hotel room?
It feels unreal in a way. The divorce, not the hotel room rendezvous. (Not his first rodeo.)
Finding yourself without a home after having one for almost twenty-five years feels unreal. And unfair. Like being sucker-punched every morning.
He hadn't even realized that house and home weren't exactly synonyms until it was too late, until he had to move out of his own home. The new address hurts like a misfit’s mark, a badge of dishonor.
Maybe deep down, he knew it would feel like this, and that's why he kept doing the things he did, but always returned home. Until he couldn't. Until she wouldn't let him in. Why? It's not like he'd done anything millions of other men aren't doing every day anyway. Doesn't that prove he is a real man after all? His ex-wife doesn't seem to think so.
There's a knock on the bedroom door. The woman is here. Anticipation quickens his heart.
He half-grins at the skinny bottle blonde as she enters the room. She's almost still a girl, really, under all the makeup.
There's something about her that reminds him of his daughter. He hadn't noticed it when he picked her from the online catalog. Or had he? People look so different in photos, don't they? And the pics are so small on the damn phone! Only she's here now, and he can't ignore the resemblance.
He should just pay and send her away.
But Todd is not a good man.
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