Middle Rage

Part 2 -- Oma

I observe myself from the outside: angry, middle aged woman, just drunk enough to insult the host and embarrass the hostess. Then despair. What am I going to do with all this rage I can't seem to let go? The grim future I seem headed for: Divorced with two estranged sons, cutting my hair too short, living in a yurt with ten cats, grinding my teeth to nubs.

Aimee grabs my hand, squeezes. I almost can't believe it. An ally.

"Hey, you have any Visine on you?" she asks, and I let go to check. "Old bartender's trick. Dan'll have to watch the game on his phone, from the toilet."

Something inside me blazes with gasping, vengeful glee. It's a petty revenge, but it's something. And after a year's worth of misery and impotence, the idea of Dan crapping himself bolsters my will to live.

Visine in hand, Aimee checks in with her toddler at the swings, then opens the slider at the back of the house, slipping inside. She's beautiful in a common way – the lustrous hair pregnancy gives women, the glowing skin. I understand what she means about being invisible though, in her floral, loose-waisted dress and lack of make-up. The way kindergarten teachers are invisible, even though they are the center of the world when you are earnest and five. Is Little Miss Mommy really going to exact rough justice on Dan the Dickhead? I have to see this go down.

"Well, I'm gonna hit the girl's," I say to Jenn as she comes back to the patio seating with her sister. Neither make eye contact, Jenn's toned shoulders rigid.

The wine's given everything a happy little soundtrack, like I'm in a cartoon. Walking casual, I head in.

I'm blind for a moment – the daylight outside so bright, and now the gorgon of a television, primary colors radiating. It's hard to see the men on the couch, leaning forward, intent on the game. In a few blinks, I find Aimee, lurking at the side of the couch. A quick scan of the guys and I realize no one else seems to notice her there. She's as invisible as wait staff.

The game announcers' banter picks up pace, going choppy, frenetic, almost sexual. Black Solo cups litter the room. Easy to guess Dan's as the one right next to him, unguarded on the end table, near a plate containing cocktail meatballs and a squirt of ketchup. Aimee seems transfixed by the game.

Do it, I will her, from my spot on the wall, tamping down giggles. The TV crowd roars. The men cheer, jumping to their feet, and I practically scream DO IT! NOW!

But in an instant, the men are crashing back into their seats, swilling beer, plucking hors devours to pop into their mouths.

Soren's eye catches on Aimee. "Hey, fill me up, would ya?" I let go of the breath I've been holding. She's missed her chance.

"Sure." Aimee grabs the cup and heads over to the pony keg in the kitchen.

I'm so defeated, I almost weep. Jesus, maybe I need to lay off the booze. What did I expect? Even petty revenge is something we'll only talk about. My head feels too heavy, and I close my eyes.

"Hey, you OK?" I know it's Scott before he speaks – the familiar smell of him, the way he stands closer to me than anyone else would. I push down my despair. Maybe all this can be explained simply – I'm going through the change.

Those are their rules, set up to keep you at a disadvantage. My mother's voice in my head, except my mother would never have said anything like that.

I open my eyes, if only to escape my thoughts. Scott's there, face wrinkled with small concern. I lean in to give him a quick kiss.

"Kids OK?" He knows me well enough to realize something's not right. I slip my phone out of my back pocket. Our teenage sons are at their friends' for the afternoon.