The burning end of a cigarette flared bright in the darkened interior of the car and then faded into the blackness. Tendrils of smoke escaped into the night air through the one inch opened window.
The woman inside the car stared up at the second story window where the silhouette of the young woman dressed and admired herself in what was no doubt the contents of the Victoria's Secret shopping bags that she had carried in just a short while before.
How vain this Kirsten was. What was it that Dom saw in her anyway? The modeling woman behind the sheer curtains turned just enough for her observer to see the answer to her own question. How stupid men were, how weak to lose all sense of morals, all their will power for a pair of young, pert breasts. It was disgusting. Men's egos were so fragile and so easily stroked and manipulated. But vanity equaled stupidity and as far as this woman scorned was concerned, Dom and Kirsten deserved each other and she was going to see to it that they both got what they deserved.
A noise in the trunk startled the observer out of her reverie. She opened the door, stepped out, flicked her cigarette into the street, then reached for something behind the driver's seat. Walking to the rear of the car, she opened the trunk and looked inside. One quick motion and the tire iron in her hand came down hard against Dom's skull. He fell silent again.
"Sorry, Dom darling," the woman said soothingly, "but I'm just not interested in anything you have to say at this point." With that, she slammed the trunk closed again and returned to her seat in the car.
Poor Dom, so dead on his feet from working late at the office. And no doubt this little harlet must be keeping him up all hours of the night satisfying her every need. God forbid Dom should say that he was too tired to perform or she might interpret that as him being too old to perform and maybe consider trading him in for a younger model. Afterall, isn't that every man's worst fear--being thought of as too old to keep up? Or too old to keep it up? Hasn't Viagra made billions of dollars playing to this insecurity of the male ego?
No, poor Dom, so exhausted hadn't even noticed his once-loving wife's car parked next to his in the parking lot with her waiting patiently as she listened to what had been their song for so many years playing in the CD player.
The look on his face was priceless. He almost looked--relieved?--or was it scared? Maybe he was beginning to see the error of his ways. Maybe Dom was wanting to ask her for forgiveness and 'please would she take him back?' She almost felt pity for him when she drove the shiny tire iron down against his head and watched him stagger backwards before falling to the ground.
The look of sheer terror coupled with shocked surprise in his eyes almost brought out her long dormant feelings of compassion towards him--almost. But it was too late for that now. Too much time had passed. Too much water under the bridge. She had given too much and just like that he walked away with all of it and never bothered to look back. No, she thought, he made his choice. And as she looked down at his unconscious form on the pavement, blood streaming from the gash in his skull, shining as liquid does in the flourescent glow of street lamps, a smile crossed her lips and for the first time in a long time she felt good.