Kitty woke up alone and washed down the day’s first Prozac with a supple ’59 Bordeaux. She carried the bottle with her out to the veranda, where she sat for hours and stared out into the garden. At about noon, the cell phone in the pocket of her silk robe rang; she answered.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” the caller said. “How are you doing?”
“You heard me, I’m goddamn miserable. You’re on a pretend business trip to the Caymans, scuba diving and screwing your secretary, and I’m supposed be the good Stepford Wife, planning your big welcome back party.”
“Good Lord, Kitty, don’t start that again.”
“Twenty million dollars in the bank and I need a psychiatrist on call just to keep myself from playing in traffic.” She poured herself another glass of wine.
“Fine. You don’t like it, go. Just don’t let the pre-nup hit you in the ass on the way out.”
“Fuck you and your secretary. Can she even type?” She threw the phone into the shrubs.
Kitty took a drink and studied her surroundings – the lush gardens, the Olympic-sized pool – before walking back inside. She paused to grab her purse and keys, along with another bottle of Bordeaux, before making her way to the garage. Minutes later she emerged, still in the robe, behind the wheel of a cherry-red Corvette. She studied her rearview until she saw smoke trickle house, then she aimed the Vette south towards Tijuana, and hit the gas.