Blood on the Floor

6 Jul

Another weekend with daggers drawn.  Ann angry over a friendship I have with a woman named Holly, who I met traveling. Ann has a legitimate gripe. During a Curacao family press trip, with our kids tucked away at the resort, the PR people brought the journalist/parents out to dinner. Over coffee, they said they had a surprise for us and brought us to Curacao’s island whorehouse, a converted army barracks called Allegro Campo.  During the night I impulsively bought a $1 lap dance for Holly. Holly wrote about it in an article. Ann read the article online. All hell broke loose.

I told Ann that I could understand how she felt, but I couldn’t guarantee I’d never do something like that again. In my travels I’ve bungee jumped off Victoria Falls, zip-lined through a Jamaica forest, white-water rafted in New Zealand, visited cathedrals, museums and writers’ homes throughout the world. I’ve watched belly-dancers in Istanbul and talked with streetwalkers in Lisbon. I’ve walked through neighborhoods where the danger was palpable. I’ve done hundreds of things. Going to Allegro Campo was one of them.

This led Ann to angrily characterize me as a selfish, bullying alcoholic, a person who doesn’t have any friends in the town where we live, a sleazeball. Someone incapable of having custody of Devon if we ever divorced. A whole litany of insults.

I had to stop myself from responding with a similar warped portrait.

I asked, “If you really believe this about me, why would you ever want to stay married?”

Her reply was she was staying with me for Devon’s sake – that Devon needed the stability.




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