10 comments/ 11843 views/ 11 favorites The Irrelevant Woman By: optimizer888 Experiments show that our senses only detect a tiny portion of what's out there. Worse, our brains manage to process just a fraction of that. It's astonishing how much escapes our notice - and escapes it so completely that we don't even realize we missed anything. Surely it wouldn't take much to exploit those limitations... (This story takes place in the "Newer Universe" series.) Whatever the girl was thinking about, it purely wasn't the groceries she was ringing up. "Excuse me," Mary said. The clerk kept grabbing items and typing in the prices. "Excuse me," Mary said said again, a bit more loudly. The girl looked almost startled, as if the register or a box of cookies had suddenly spoke up. "I'm sorry?" she asked. "You rang up my corn twice." The girl stared for a moment, then ran her finger up the tape coming from the register. She then turned and looked at the clot of foodstuffs at the end of the belt - apparently to count cans. Sullenly, she pulled the microphone to her mouth and called for a manager. Once the sale was voided, the girl silently went back to processing the order. And then bagged it all silently, too. No one offered to help Mary load the groceries into her car. Martha Brady and Patty-Jo Waller were chatting in front of the exit door; she had to wait quietly for them to notice her and move out of the way. She piled it all in the trunk of the rusted Nova, and got it started up on the second try. Switching on the radio, she carefully pulled out of the lot. As she made her way home, she noticed Annabelle on the sidewalk, and almost honked. The girl looked her way - for a moment Mary was sure she looked right in her eyes - but she moved on, and the car passed her. Oh, well, why should the girl even have the time for a middle-aged housewife, outside of choir practice? Her path took her by the church where their choir sang. She took note of the sign out front: "THE LORD LOOKETH FROM HEAVEN; HE BEHOLDETH ALL THE SONS OF MEN." - PSALM 33:13 Pastor Collins was still on about that "White Event". Not three months ago everything had lit up for a few moments, bright as could be, everywhere on Earth. Many people took it as a sign the End Times had begun - Collins among them. Mary just held to Matthew 24:36, "But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only." The radio people were talking about an earthquake, in some place called "San Salvador". Or maybe "El Salvador". It seemed like both, or something. Just for a moment, she wondered if the pastor might not have the right idea. Her own worries took over as she turned onto their street, and searched their driveway with her eyes. Mary sighed with relief as she pulled into the garage. Hobart's car wasn't there. If only she could put away the groceries before he got home... She compared prices, waited for deals, clipped coupons. He still always chewed her out about how much she spent on food. Yet there was plenty of money for beer, or bowling shoes, or paint for his car. If he didn't see her putting it all away, she wouldn't have to hear him go on about it. Or feel him take it out of her hide. She started by lugging the milk into the kitchen. Even in early October, dew beaded like sweat on their sides. Cold never really hit Georgia until January or so. Maybe December. As it turned out, she had plenty of time. He didn't show at all, the whole time she was stowing things away, and she got started on dinner. Meatloaf was a safe choice. Hobart never complained about her meatloaf, which was the closest thing to praise that came from him anymore. It was hard to remember ever loving him. She could recall bare facts - being excited for the wedding, going off on their honeymoon. But the feeling had drained away a long time ago. Even her memories were in black and white. All that was left were smoldering embers of fear and resentment and well-banked, carefully-hidden hate. She had dinner ready by six. But there was no sign of Hobart. A quarter after, she had a sinking feeling, which had turned into a sick depression by half past. He'd gone for a beer with the boys, or some such thing, and hadn't bothered to let her know. Anxiously she checked the answering machine again, but there was no message. At seven she surrendered hope, and ate standing up, even as she rushed to get the plates and leftovers put away. There was no way around it, it would be a bad time when he got home. He'd scream about her wasting food, no matter that he hadn't called her. No matter that he'd have screamed just as loud if he'd got home from the plant and dinner wasn't on the table. The most she could hope for was that he'd be too drunk to think about it until the morning. She couldn't be lucky enough for him to get so drunk he'd kill himself on the road home. It wasn't much after eight when she heard the car door slam outside. Earlier than she'd expected. Maybe even his "friends" had ditched him. Mary stood in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for tomorrow's casserole. The accustomed tension spread across her back as the key turned in the back door lock. He walked in and made an unconscious sniff when he caught sight of her. "I missed you at dinner," she said quietly, not looking up. "I got dinner out. Me and Barry and Hitch went over to Lula." "Oh." She knew what that meant. A bar there. They went because it got a younger crowd, even some college kids. She didn't even care anymore about Hobart eying girls half his age. It was just that he'd come home to her, and she wouldn't measure up. And he'd blame her. "Is that meatloaf I smell?" It had started. She risked a quick glance at his face. His expression belonged on an angry grade schooler, maybe even a kindergartener. Not a canning plant worker pushing fifty. Not a tall man with thinning and graying hair, a broad beer belly, and rosacea-ruddy cheeks. She sensed the fearful, pleading tone creeping into her voice, and hated herself for it. "I thought you were coming home after work. I thought you'd like..." "I never said I was coming straight home! Christ, it's Friday night! I don't need your damn permission to go out with my friends!" Right, it was her fault she'd assumed he'd come home for dinner like he did nine times out of ten, even on Fridays. "Of course not, I just thought..." She shrank in on herself, but she was facing him now. She'd need to see when he started hitting. He bellowed. "You 'thought'! You don't think, you do what I say, woman!" He pulled back his hand. From long experience, she instantly judged how far. The smack would be about average, she saw, and on her cheek. One followup, maybe two. Then, most likely, he'd have worked it off. Some crack about her hair or her spending or some other nonsense, and then he'd go watch TV. She'd probably have to muster up some tears, prove he'd hurt her; actual sobs shouldn't be needed, though. Just enough to make sure he didn't decide to... Finally she realized the blow hadn't landed. He just stood there, hand in the air, such an expression of... of...stupid befuddlement on his face that, despite the fear that was almost comfortable, despite all her instincts, she had to desperately struggle not to laugh. "Mary?" he called out uncertainly. "Where'd you go, woman?" He sounded strange. Her mouth fell open in pure confusion. What was he on about? She hadn't moved an inch. He wouldn't look her in the eye. His head darted around, searching. "Where the hell..." he muttered. Then he leaned around to look behind her. Her heart froze, along with her body. The skin of her arms, the back of her neck, sprung out in goose-pimples. If he was angry enough to taunt her, tease her... this might be a memorable beating indeed. But he just walked past her, over to the doorway into the living room, still hunting. "Mary Giselle Watson, you get your ass back in this kitchen right now!" She'd hunched over, frightened. "I'm right here, Hobart," she said, somewhat tentatively. He turned around, and she flinched. But he walked past her again to the back door, and opened it to search the backyard. "Mary?!" he yelled. "How... where the hell are you at?!" She finally placed that odd undertone in his voice. Fear. He was afraid. She'd heard suppressed fear in his voice before. Talking about his job or his boss, or sucking up to police officers when pulled over for speeding. She'd just never heard it when he was giving her orders. It made a very strange, unnerving contrast. Especially because he tended to hit her more when he was afraid. He waited a moment longer, then hollered, "You get your ass back in here right quick, or I'll tan your hide! You'll be black and blue, y'hear?!" She spoke up again, against her better judgment. Whatever game he was playing, she just wanted it done. "Hobart, I'm right here." He didn't respond to her. A moment later he slammed the door. He stormed over to the fridge, pulled out a beer, and marched into the living room. She heard the TV come on. Mary just stood in the kitchen. Completely bereft of any explanation, of any notion what was going on. It felt like a couple minutes passed. Eventually she went into the bathroom and stared in the mirror at her own reflection. There she was, the same face she saw every morning and night. She wasn't see-through or anything. It was a tired face. A timid face. Rounder than times gone by; short dirty-blonde hair framing it. She'd never liked her large nose, but once upon a time she'd thought her green eyes were her best feature. Back when they'd had some life in them. Before they stared at the floor in shame around other people. Her figure had broadened, too. She looked so... plain, so average. An overweight, middle-aged housewife. Socially invisible, maybe. But not physically so. She walked back out to the living room. Hobart sat on the couch, watching some baseball game, holding his bottle of beer. "Hobart?" she said quietly. He didn't stir. He just frowned at the screen. On a wild impulse, she walked over and stood on the other side of the coffee table, between him and the TV. He scowled, and leaned to one side. She shifted to her left, to get in his way again. He leaned the other way, still frowning. His eyes never once focused on her. Giddy, disbelieving, she backed up and parked her rear right up against the screen. It felt warm, and a little static crackled as the fabric of her skirt touched the glass. Letting out a bark of frustration, he stood up and charged toward her. The glare on his face... she quailed inside. But her instincts were to freeze, and she did. He strode up... and banged on the side of the TV. "Piece a' crap! What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he shouted. He craned his head, still trying to see around her. He grabbed the dial, clicked through to another channel. "Shit!" he yelled. He reached past her to fiddle with the antenna. With another "Shit!" he gave up. Then he looked down at his beer. It was unopened. He must be rattled to forget that! she thought absently. He stalked away, toward the kitchen, muttering angrily to himself. She just stood there, and heard him rustle in a drawer, then the pop-fizz of the bottle being opened. As he walked back into the living room, she shifted away from the TV. He stared at the screen. "Oh, you decided to work, eh? Ain't that always the fucking way." He sat back down in his usual place, where his hiney had worn a permanent dent in the cushions. Mary was well-trained in reading Hobart's mood. Like an Indian judging the weather from the small signs in the wind and sky. He was ill-at-ease, upset. And yes, definitely a little frightened. She stepped closer, carefully. He gave no sign he noticed her approach. Before long she stood next to the couch, staring down at him. Angry now, bold beyond reason, she reached down and tipped the beer into his lap. He howled and swore and stood up, wiping frantically at his pants. But he made no move to strike her. He actually walked around the coffee table to get to the bathroom, instead of barreling through where she stood. Utterly at a loss, Mary stepped away. Hobart came back, rag dabbing the wet spot on his pants. He seemed to be hunting for signs of anything out of place. It was plumb foolish how his gaze just slid past her, unseeing. No, it wasn't that he couldn't see her. He couldn't... recognize that he saw her. It was like she was just a... a piece of furniture. Something ignored, inconsequential, unimportant. Something beneath notice. Something you couldn't notice? The Irrelevant Woman Just watching them was a treat. She couldn't believe Jimmy. Not even nineteen and already he knew more about pleasing a woman than Hobart ever would. Annabelle had gotten hold of herself a bit, and gave her lover a smile as wicked as Mary had ever seen. Jimmy's answering grin was just as saucy. She knelt on the scraggly grass in front of him and began undoing his pants. Mary gasped in shock - she couldn't possibly plan to... But she did. She pulled the pants and briefs down and unhesitatingly took his length into her mouth. And 'length' was the right term - he had Hobart beat there, too. Annabelle must have done this before. Several times. She seemed to have a pretty good idea how to please a man. Her tongue stayed active, and Mary just couldn't imagine where it all went when the girl took his entire... thing into her mouth. Did they really mean 'deep throat' literally? "Oh, fuck yeah..." Jimmy said, low and intense, as Annabelle pulled her face back slightly. Her lips were pursed around just the last inch or two of him; her jaw worked, just slightly, her tongue clearly moving in there, all over his tip. "Fuck! Fuck! Here it comes!" Jimmy exclaimed. He put one hand out to grab a strut. His eyes closed and he took a deep breath. "Uh, uh, uh!" he groaned, and his hips pushed forward a little. Annabelle moaned around his... his cock. Mary was in shock. Hobart had forced her to try sucking him a handful of times, but she'd never managed to get him to finish. And if she had, she'd never have swallowed it! Yet Annabelle seemed almost proud! They kissed afterward. Hobart sure hadn't wanted to do that right after she'd had him in her mouth, but Jimmy didn't seem to care. They canoodled for a bit longer, then Annabelle said, "We gotta get back. My mom's gonna worry. " Jimmy gave her one last lingering kiss, and they got their clothes decent and walked off again, hand-in-hand. She followed them to end of the bleachers and watched them shrink into the distance. She hadn't imagined this night could get any stranger, but it had. She wished she'd masturbated during the show. Why hadn't she? It wasn't like they'd have noticed... The Irrelevant Woman Come to think of it, she'd never really seen what a grown one looked like. She couldn't very well peek at her own! In half-disgusted curiosity, she bent to look more closely. After a moment, she concluded that God had run out of sugar and spice when He was putting coochies together. Billy was really going to town. She looked over at the pile he hadn't opened. The 'Penthouses' seemed to be the nastier ones. She extracted one and flipped through it. Several different tramps, showing off their goods. An unexpected thought occurred to her. She'd never considered doing anything like that. But then, it'd been more and more obvious lately that she'd never really looked for any attention. Maybe she'd never considered it because she'd never thought anybody would pay for naked pictures of her? Billy's eyes were glued to the pages. Hobart might've looked at her that way a couple times. Maybe on their wedding night. Maybe. The boy reached over and pulled out a couple tissues from the box on his desk. He got them in place and, almost silently, finished his business. He tossed the stuff in the trash by his bed. There was a pretty good pile of tissues in the can already.