“And you’re a cunt,” mumbled the sluggish woman with a frown that made her look half-dead.
Two of the mothers inhaled sharp breaths and one of the fathers simply withered. He was holding Destiny’s fat pink parka and he collapsed onto the foam tiles.
“My God,” he exclaimed. “Think of the children.”
The sluggish woman pulled her sweater tighter around her. It was a blustery Winter day in Bel-Air. The pre-school, situated on prime hilly California real estate, was about to become congested with messy, noisy, spoiled brats and I, waiting for my own overly indulged three year old, was having a strange confrontation (a verbally abusive one at that) with one of the mothers. All the parents, despite the fact that tuition for a single year of patty cake and coloring was costing twice the rate of a state university education, were required to volunteer at the school. Grace Acosta was an ex-CEO of a Silicon Valley startup and so she managed the school’s social media. Grey Morgan was head of HR at Disney and she volunteered to sit on the hiring committee. I, Darcy Trieste, was a former Las Vegas dancer who married a Fox executive. I really didn’t have much to offer so I was on lunch bag duty. I had to make sure no nuts were in any lunch sack. The pre-school was a nut-free zone. I looked through the sluggish woman’s Frozen lunch bag and found organic salt-free peanuts in a lovely Whole Foods wrapper.
“These have to go,” I told the woman who looked like she had swallowed too many Xanax with a bottle of Pinot. She ripped the nuts off me.
“You’re being difficult,” I said with an edge of nastiness because I had forgotten to take my Risperdal last night and I was positive the Lucid Lavender MAC lipstick smudged on my husband’s collar last night was most definitely not mine. It was not my color and I hadn’t kissed my husband in six months.
“And you’re a cunt.” The woman didn’t make eye contact.
I felt two fat tears slide down my right cheek. “Why would you say that?” The woman, despite her somnolent state, had two perfect fake breasts and a very pert ass that was all outlined in her yoga attire. She was exactly my husband’s type. I did not see Lucid Lavender on her lips.
“It’s just a word.” She shrugged and threw the nuts in the trash.
In the evening, my husband came home reeking of Chanel. Not my scent. “You’re an ass,” I said.
He looked hurt. “Why would you say that?”
I shrugged. “It’s just a word.” I wrote on my calendar, CALL ATTORNEY. Divorce is just a word.