Formerly Fingerman by Joe Nelms

(THUMP) (THUMP) (THUMP) And my old boyfriend I saw last week. (THUMP) (THUMP) (THUMP).”
    To be fair, a lot of this was Brad’s interpretation of what Gracie was trying to communicate. Most of the sounds coming from her mouth weren’t actual properly enunciated English words, but rather a series of feral grunts, moans, and slurps. But he was pretty sure he got the gist of it.
    Brad stood very still, slack jawed, silently stunned. Never saw it coming. And now he could do nothing but let this tsunami of betrayal wash over him.
    â€œ. . . and the florist (THUMP) (THUMP) (THUMP) who I thought was gay (THUMP) (THUMP) (THUMP) but really wasn’t. I mean (THUMP) (THUMP) (THUMP) reeeeally wasn’t (THUMP) (THUMP) (THUMP).”
    Brad’s cell phone started to vibrate. By the third ring it synched up with Gracie’s thumping. Apparently the whole universe was in on the joke.
    His right hand hit the answer button and held it next to his face. After a few moments, he moved his mouth enough to speak, although out of courtesy to his wife and the cable guy, he kept it to a whisper.
    â€œ. . . Hello? . . . This is he . . . Oh, hi Geoff. What’s—oh . . . Already? I thought you were going to bounce my portfolio across a few desks . . . Who did you hear that from?
    â€œ(THUMP) (THUMP) (THUMP) (THUMP) OH-GOD-OH-GOD-OH-GODDDD”
    â€œ. . . It’s trending on Twitter? . . . Yes, I know social media is forever. Is there any chance I could . . . ?”
    â€œ(THUMP) (THUMP) (THUMP) And the grocery delivery guy. (THUMP) (THUMP) (THUMP) And some bartender I met on Craigslist. (THUMP) (THUMP) (THUMP) Oh my God! (THUMP) (THUMP) (THUMP) This is the (THUMP) (THUMP) (THUMP) best sex I’ve (THUMP) had in hours.”
    As reality hammered itself into Brad’s consciousness on so many levels, he pulled himself together long enough to whisper to Geoff, “I have to go. I’m a little busy right now. Thanks for calling . . .”
    â€œ(THUMP) I’ll definitely (THUMP) be thinking about you (THUMP) the next time I force myself (THUMP) to have sex with my husband. (THUMP) (THUMP) (THUMP).”
    Brad dropped the phone without hanging up.
    â€œOh . . . ( THUMP ) God . . . ( THUMP ) My . . . ( THUMP ) Marriage . . . ( THUMP ) Is . . . ( THUMP ) A . . . ( THUMP ) SHAMMMMMM-OHHHH-GODDDD!”
    In his office, Geoff listened for a few more moments before nodding to himself, content that he had made the right decision after finding out about the vodka thing. Besides, who doesn’t mute their porn when they answer the phone, for Pete’s sake? Very unprofessional.
    No sir, Fingerman just wasn’t up to snuff.
    Brad stood in the doorway for a few beats longer, not to enjoy what remained of the final bit of quality time he would ever spend with his wife, but to wrestle his ego into submission. This was it. The universe had given him what he thought was a buffet of opportunities but was in fact a confluence of ultimatums.
    Waltzing toward a silver anniversary with Gracie. Out. Working as an advertising superstar or even a midlevel flunky in New York. Dunzo. Trying to live a normal life as Brad Fingerman, the guy who the Mafia probably wants to behead for what he may or may not have seen. Sorry, not happening.
    Someone had declared checkmate in a game Brad had no idea he was even playing.
    There was only one vine left.

The New Brad
    â€œI saw it all.”
    Brad had been sitting in Brittany’s office for half an hour before she came back from lunch. This dated, beige utilitarian workspace was all he had in the entire universe. His apartment was forever tainted by cable guy sex. Advertising had broken up with him without so much as a sort-of sincere It’s not you, it’s me speech. Chuck the ass manager most likely already had some brand new loser in Brad’s chicken outfit. Brad was homeless. Physically and psychologically, simply untethered. So he sat and waited for Brittany,