The Hunch by June Trop
I had a hunch the bastard was cheating on me . But our hours were so different , how could I know for sure ? What with him a mail sorter on the night shift and me a teacher at the local middle school . And I couldn ’ t tell by the money . He never forked over his paycheck , just what he had left at the end of the pay period . Of course , he had expenses too : gassing up the car , haircuts , lunches — what he called his “ walking around money .” And then “ his obligation ,” the child support for the brat I didn ’ t know about when we got married . And wouldn ’ t you know it ? This month , he said , the kid wanted a set of drums .
But I had enough of a hunch from the gifts he brought home at Christmas , from his co-workers , he said . I ’ m talking cashmere sweaters just the right size and Clive Christian perfume , whatever that stink was . Certainly nothing I ’ d ’ ve bought . That was the year he gave me a dented cutting board , not even wrapped .
Since I couldn ’ t be sure , why stir up his temper ? He had one , you know . Like his idol , Muhammad Ali , he had fast fists , but their sting was worse than a bee ’ s . I know , but I guess I got what I wanted , the handsomest guy I ever saw , that manly , square-jawed kind of handsome ; that stop-traffic-dead-on-the-street kind with dimples , curly black hair , and smooth , easy-going manners . Let ’ s face it : I fell for him . We eloped after six weeks of athletic sex .
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