One Is The Lonliest Number

“It’s not fair Ellen; it’s just not fair,” Regina Stanton cried into the telephone, “God, I love them both so much.”
Ellen’s brassy voice echoed in the small apartment, “Well Reggie, you gotta do something. This thing has gone on far enough. You have to tell him.”
“I know. I know I do, but with him being in Iraq and all, it seems so, uh, bitchy to write him a ‘Dear John’ letter. I feel so guilty.”
“I know you do girl, but you’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.”
Regina picked at her flannel pajama bottoms with serrated fingernails, as she cradled the phone between her shoulder and cheek, a nervous habit she’d had since childhood. “I never meant for this to happen, you know? It’s just that John’s been gone so long, and then they extended his tour. I was lonely, so damn lonely. The walls in this apartment were closing in on me; I needed company. Oh Ellen, I don’t want to lose either one of them.”
“Listen baby sister, you knew how John was when you married him. You knew he was a warrior. And, you can’t say you didn’t know about the other thing. You have got to tell him or you’re not going to be worth a damn to either one of them.”
“You’re right sis, I know you’re right, and I will tell him; I’ll write him that letter. Thanks for being there.”
“Anytime you need me Reg, anytime at all.”
Regina hung up the phone and buried her face in her hands. “What did I get myself into,” she asked the sofa. It didn’t answer. She glanced at the desk, the personalized stationary her father had given her on her last birthday hid in the middle drawer.
Before heading to the desk, Regina made a detour to the kitchen and poured herself a half-glass of Pinot Grigio, hoping its lubricating effects might loosen her thoughts and help transcribe them to paper. She looked at the sink, two plates sat in soapy water, reminders of her dinner with Thompson only an hour or so earlier. Two. Two is what Regina had signed up for, not Iraq, not loneliness, not the heartbreak of one.
As she gathered her resolve and started for the desk, she caught the feint sounds of Thomson’s snores coming from the bedroom. It was the music of damp breezes played on ripe potatoes. It was the music of companionship in the key of love major. The snuffling ear candy drew her towards the bedroom, but she resisted, knowing if she did not take pen in hand now, the stress of deception would crush her.
After placing the wine glass on the desk, Regina withdrew her stationary from the drawer, grasped the comfort-grip gel pen in hand and began.

Dear John,
I miss you so much, and I been so lonely, so please don’t be upset with me because…I bought a dog. I know you don’t like dogs, but I hope you love me enough to like Thompson….