Monica

Flash fiction story

Women trust me with their husbands. They really shouldn’t.

Hi, I’m Monica. No, I don’t look or act like Monica from Friends. I also wasn’t named after her and I sincerely wish people would stop asking. It’s usually one of the first things that comes up when they meet me.

I’m the kind of woman that other women don’t worry about. I’m flat-chested, I don’t do anything with my hair or make-up and I shop in the “basics” section of any given clothing store. I wore a basic sleeveless black dress to my sister’s wedding to the dismay — but not surprise — of everyone there.

I had worn the same dress to my grandpa’s funeral a few months prior.

Being in my 30s, most of my friends are married. Half of them have kids. Not being a kid person myself, my stiff reactions when they show photos of their booger-clogged, clingy, cuddle monsters is less than half as enthusiastic as they’d hoped. I’m glad they stopped asking me if I’d like to babysit.

Only made the mistake to babysit once when a friend from college, April, asked me to watch her son, Jack. I wasn’t doing anything that evening, so I said sure. The kid nearly decapitated himself jumping off the couch when I was in the bathroom. I didn’t think it would be right to tie him to a chair while I went, but in hindsight, it might have been the better alternative.

Anyway, since my mom-friends are often busy keeping their kids out of trouble when I come over, I’m left chatting with their husbands. I get invited to game nights because a) board games are fun and b) I’m not someone they’re worried their husbands are gonna run off with. I get calls from April every other month asking me to drive her husband to the airport because she can’t take him and they only have one car.

I’m a blank canvas to my female friends, genderless. I don’t show interest in anyone. When I was in college, I told them that I was asexual just so they would stop trying to set me up with people.

A single woman is a problem to be fixed. If you’re not having sex or you’re not complaining about not having sex, something must be wrong with you. The thing is, I do like sex. I just don’t like talking about it.

Then there’s Bonnie, another friend(?). When she and her husband Isaac talk, it’s like two cars speeding past each other. I find clever ways to interrupt her when she starts giving our friends relationship advice, citing her deep connection with Isaac that has never existed.

Isaac hosts game nights at their house. They’ve got a nice three-story mansion on Lake Michigan. Inherited it from her parents. Bonnie always makes that same stupid joke that she’s the queen and he just gets to live there. It hurts him.

I’m actively planning the day I scoop him out of the toxic vat that is their marriage.

Thanks for reading! Here’s another story I’d like to share with you:

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