The moment the subway doors opened was the moment it all fell apart for Juan Miguel. Not that he knew it, but later he’d put everything together, check dates and times, and realize that at the exact moment the doors opened at Malabia Station at 10:17 am Tuesday February 8th, 2022 his life went to total shit.

More specifically his wife, mid blowjob, convinced his boss, who’s cock his wife had in her mouth, to fire him and run away to his vacation home in Punta del Este, Uruguay. Now old Juan Miguel’s wife never blew him in a way that would inspire him to upend his life, but he guessed she really brought her ‘A’ game on his boss. In that moment, perhaps inspired by his current circumstances, or perhaps seeing it as the culmination of a variety of things, his boss agreed. Juan Miguel was fired by the time he reached the office, and they were on the ferry to Montevideo with the entire contents of all bank accounts and retirement funds Juan Miguel had. 

That night he sat alone in their apartment, reading and re-reading the note his wife had left on the dining room table. Between shots of every booze they had in their liquor cabinet he tried to make sense of what the words on the page were trying to say. 

To wit, she’d grown tired of him in the first six months of the quarantine, then resentful in the second six months, then vengeful. She’d decided to start fucking his boss just to get some feelings out, but, discovering how rich and easily manipulated his boss was, and decided to milk him for all the luxuries and material comforts he could provide. A parting gift had to be given, as a final coup de gras, just for shits and giggles if nothing else. The empiness of a bank account and no job to refill the coffers.

“Fucking bitch.” He said to a tumbler glass about a woman whom he still deeply loved.

They’d be in some fancy house, with a pool and beach access, while he sat in this crummy apartment sweating in the summer heat. He didn’t care what tomorrow brought if it came at all. He didn’t need to stop drinking, it’s not like he had work or anyone’s feelings to take into account. 

He wondered what he had done so wrong during the quarantine. She’d never said anything. He would have done anything to fix things. Maybe this was just an excuse, this was some seriously fucked up behavior after all. If he really had done something to warrant it, he thought he’d at least be able to guess at what it might have been. 

He racked his brain going through as many days as he could remember and couldn’t remember much at all. Routines and mild forms of entertainment. Maybe it was a slow burn as opposed to something sudden and terrible. Maybe he had neglected her, or just ignored one too many pet peeves. Maybe he was just a shit husband to start with, or going back further, a shit person from day one when the jizz of his dad’s ball sack met his mother’s egg. 

Or maybe just one day the subway doors open and everything goes to shit. 

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