Who's This?

Kirsten chewed and swallowed her doughnut.

"Met at an NA Convention; took one look at him and said 'I am absolutely one hundred and one percent in love' and walked right up to him and said 'hi, you better tell me you love me right now or I'm going kick your ass.' He looked at me, smiled and I knew I was in deep trouble and said 'Now, how'd you know I was fixing tell you I love you?' and we been together ever since," Kirsten smiled.

"In a, In a what?" Myra asked.

"N. A., Narcotics Anonymous," Kirsten said. "I'm an addict."

"You're a what?" Myra asked, shocked.

This woman did not look like what Myra envisioned as an addict.

"Was hooked on meth," Kirsten said. "Hit bottom when I came to in a jail cell covered in my best friend's blood."

Kirsten swallowed hard, then grabbed another doughnut.

"By that time, we was shooting up. Found out Rosa still had her some meth, was holding out on me so I picked up a brick and almost beat her ass to death," Kirsten said.

She went to grab another doughnut, then stopped.

"I wasn't raised like that," she said. "My mom and dad? Good, Christian people. Tried to give me anything and everything I ever wanted, but they just couldn't fill that empty hole inside of me."

Kirsten shrugged and opened the second box and grabbed a chocolate doughnut.

"Had that moment of clarity, said 'I can't go on like this no more' and the police woman that was monitoring the women's' side said 'Wait right there.' Next thing I know, I'm in a room with this woman, said she's a meth head too. Been my sponsor ever since."

"What happened to your friend?" Myra asked and grabbed the last glazed doughnut.

"Rosa? I don't know," Kirsten admitted. "Tried help her get clean and sober; she ripped me off then took off. Haven't seen her since."

Myra then remembered what they'd been talking about before the doughnuts showed up.

"And what you mean, I left Donny long before?" Myra demanded. "I loved that man to death."

"How's Donovan like his eggs?" Kirsten asked. "I'm not even married to him and I can answer that."

"Scrambled?" Myra asked.

"Over medium," Kirsten corrected.

"He used to love them scrambled," Myra challenged.

"No, not really," Kirsten corrected again. "How's he feel about flying?"

"Not crazy about it," Myra guessed.

"Donovan's mom and dad and his older brother were all killed in plane crashes," Kirsten said. "He absolutely refuses to fly."

"And how you know all this shit?" Myra snapped, angered.

Myra was extremely embarrassed; this low life trailer park drug addict seemed to know more about her Donny than she did. She'd been the one living with Donny, fucking Donny, planning to marry Donny, not this hideous little troll. If Kirsten wasn't blonde, she wouldn't even qualify as 'plain.' She'd be downright ugly.

"Melinda mainly works the lunch shift; I'm the lunch shift manager," Kirsten said, glancing at her wall clock. "We talk."

She smiled a happy smile.

"Believe me, them girls know all about me and Bear," she said. "And I know all about Melinda and Donovan, know all about Brooke and Ed and their kids, and Dallas and her latest fuck buddy."

Myra briefly thought of Jennifer, the teller immediately to her left at First Commerce.

They'd been working together for almost three and a half years. Myra was fairly certain Jennifer was married; she kept prattling about some 'Tim' or 'Jim' or something like that. She was eight months pregnant; Myra had been invited to the baby shower, but had just sent a gift with Suzanne, another teller.

Myra certainly didn't know how Tim, or Jim, or whoever Jennifer was involved with liked their eggs. She didn't even know what color hair Tim or Jim had, even though she'd seen Jennifer getting into a Chevy Malibu and there was a man behind the wheel.

Myra pushed the thought out of her head as soon as it entered. She was the head teller; she didn't need to know the personal lives of her employees. She just needed to know their schedules.

"But Donovan pretty much knew it was over even before he overheard you on the phone with who ever it was," Kirsten was saying.

Myra's head snapped up.

He had overheard her when Michael had called. That was the missing piece of the puzzle. That had been gnawing and gnawing at Myra's brain since that horrible Friday night. How had Donny discovered she was having herself a little fling?

Obviously Donny had overheard her and Michael making their plans.

"He absolutely despises shaved pussies; thinks it is just unnatural," Kirsten said and Myra's jaw dropped.

Michael had asked Belle, Myra, and Linda to shave; he loved smooth pussies.

Belle had refused, whining about how much it would itch. Linda had likewise declined.

"Thomas has been asking me to do that for years now," she simpered. "He'd get mighty suspicious if I all of a sudden capitulated and shaved it, don't you think?"

But Myra had gladly taken razor to her wisps of carrot orange pubic hair.

"So, you go on one of your 'Girls' Weekends' and come back with a bald beaver," Kirsten went on, but Myra wasn't listening any longer.

At nine thirty, Kirsten firmly guided Myra to the door of the trailer and they left.

"Ew!" Myra wrinkled her nose at the stench inside her car.

"Yeah, second hand vodka and tonic don't smell too pretty, huh?" Kirsten said easily from the rear seat.

"Uh, why'd Donny, Donovan move here?" Myra asked as Kirsten gave her directions to the bar.

"I mean, not that it's not nice, but..." she hastened to add.

"Lindsey, his sister?" Kirsten said.

"I know who Lindsey is," Myra snapped.

Myra hadn't meant to snap her response. The sugar had helped a little with the hangover, but the smell of her vomit in the car was beginning to irritate her terribly.

"She moved down here to do her residency," Kirsten continued. "Liked it so much she just stayed on at the Trauma Center. Invited Donovan down and since you'd decided to fuck around, he had no reason to stay up in Missouri anymore."

"Oh," Myra said and pulled up to the lounge.

She'd forgotten all about Lindsey moving, about the tearful 'Good-bye' party they'd had at his sister's condo. She certainly had not remembered the name of the town Lindsey had moved to.

Had she not overheard a member of the credit union talking with another member in the lobby about the diesel mechanic that had saved him thousands on a repair, Myra wouldn't even had known where to begin her search. As luck would have it, the member wound up at Myra's window and confirmed that he was a trucker and had stopped off at Premier Lines in Bender, Louisiana.

"Donny? No, don't think that was the man's name," the man had mused, scratching his three day growth of beard. "Hell, might have been; I don't know."

As Kirsten was getting out of the car at the Dead End bar, she pointed toward Highway 52 and Highway 19.

"Car wash that way; they do a great job detailing," Kirsten said. "They'll get the smell right out of here."

Myra was already pulling out of the parking lot before she remembered to roll down the window and shout out a 'Thank You' to Kirsten.

While sitting in the office of the car wash, Myra pulled her cell phone out of her purse. Belle answered on the third ring.

"Well?" Belle demanded. "He admit he..."

"Wasn't him," Myra lied. "Guy's name wasn't even Donald; it was Donovan."

"Shit!" Belle spat.

Then she tallied up the amount of time Myra had been in DeGarde, Louisiana.

"So it wasn't him, what you been doing for the last day and a half?" Belle demanded.

"Just because it wasn't him didn't mean I couldn't have a little fun, huh?" Myra lied again.

Myra hung up and numbly dropped the phone back into her purse.

Traffic had been good driving back from Chicago that night; it had taken Myra half the time to get home as it had going.

Myra almost plowed into the garage door; it didn't go up when she hit the remote control. She ran up to the door and tried jamming her key into the lock but it didn't fit.

Then she hammered and hammered on the door. When a neighbor's light went on, Myra decided to try the rear door.

Again, her key didn't fit, so she broke a window pane, cutting her hand badly.

Her hand still bore the scar from the bad stitch job the intern had performed.

She had reached in with her uninjured hand and slid the window up and scrambled in.

The house was bare. There was not a stick of furniture in any of the rooms. The garage was empty, swept out.

Looking back onto the back porch, Myra saw that Donny's Green Egg smoker was not there. The four wrought iron chairs were not there.

"Police! Open this door!" an authoritative voice demanded and then someone knocked on the door.

She gave them Donny's phone number. The Sergeant called Donny's phone. He got Donny's voice mail and left a message.

A few hours later, sitting in a cell, hand bandaged up, Myra was told Donny had finally returned the phone call and declined to drop the breaking and entering charges.

"Let me talk to him," Myra demanded and the arresting officer just smirked at her.

"Ma'am, he said you had no business being in his house and certainly had no business breaking that window," the man said.

She was arraigned on Monday. Three months later, Myra's lawyer managed to get the case pled down to time served and a three thousand dollar fine.

Donny's phone number had been changed; he never did return Myra's numerous calls or respond to any of her messages. He just changed the number.

A week after her arraignment, Myra and Linda were sitting in the living room, talking quietly when they heard Thomas's Mercedes-Benz scream to a stop.

Then the side door was flung open and Thomas stormed in.

Before either Myra or Linda could react, Thomas slapped Linda across her well-maintained face.

Then he flung an envelope at the shocked woman.

Myra's face blanched white when she saw a photograph of her mother riding Michael's large cock, face twisted in ecstasy.

They barely had time to regain their footing from that earthquake; Thomas had Linda removed from his home, when an army of IRS agents swarmed Michael's office and home.

Michael had been less than scrupulous in his filings; when all the smoke cleared, Michael was sentenced to five years, his accountant was sentenced to eight years, and four of Michael's largest clients had to pay substantial fines.

Michael's properties were also seized in lieu of the back taxes that Michael owed. Belle had no choice but to move in with Linda.

Before the IRS could also attach garnishments to her income, Belle filed for divorce and then declared bankruptcy. She found out, too late, that bankruptcy does not protect against the Internal Revenue Service.

Linda, Belle, and Myra, as well as Michael, developed a deep-seated hatred of Donald Andrew Owens. Thomas did not like Donald Andrew Owens, but he developed a raw hatred of Dorothy Linda Feldman Eggleman.

"Ma'am? Car's ready," a pleasant voice broke Myra out of her musings.

She looked up and nodded her head.

"Been thinking about getting one of them; you like your Audi?" the woman asked as Myra paid the charge with her American Express.

"It handles nice, especially in ice and snow," Myra agreed. "I mean, you guys probably don't get a whole lot of that, but..."

"Oh, believe me, a snowflake hits the ground here, it shuts everything down," the woman laughed.

The car did smell much better when she got into it and she pulled out of the parking lot.

Donny had said he wasn't the one who had sent the photographs to Daddy.

Myra turned north, to return to Colfax, Missouri.

Anyone would have been bragging, crowing about sending the photographs. But Donny had said he had not done it.

In fact, he had said he'd lost all interest in her and her family so had no incentive to send those photographs.

"And if Momma hadn't been fucking around..." Myra thought, then pushed that thought out again.

Donny had said he did not call the IRS and rat out Michael Townsend.

"If Michael hadn't been..." Myra thought and again pushed that thought out.

"And if I hadn't been..." she thought and again pushed that thought out.

She saw the depot where Donny worked. Pops, the dispatcher had been more than happy to tell the cute red head where Donny hung out.

Myra had smirked. Naturally, Donny's favorite hangout was a titty bar.

"Hey, hey, hey, can't blame a man wanting to look," Pops had chuckled at Myra's smirk. "And believe me, some of them honeys? You'd look, you'd look."

Myra saw a motorcycle off to the side and guessed that was Donny's motorcycle. He hadn't had a motorcycle in Missouri, but now Myra recalled him talking about wanting one.

Through an open bay, she saw him. Donny was underneath a tractor, pointing to something. Next to him, another man was also looking, then finally nodded his head in agreement.

"Good bye Donny," Myra said, then accelerated away.

The End.

*****

**Author's Note: I write these stories for my pleasure; I post them here for your enjoyment. I do thank you for reading my stories.

I thank those that take the time to rate my stories, and thank those that take the time to leave comments.

I do not, however, read emails. The few that I have read have been so hateful, a few of them threatening, so now I just delete them without bothering to read them.

Really? You hate me and hate my stories that much? Then don't read them. No one is forcing you to click on the link.

To the rest of you, have a sticky sweet day.