By Rosanne Trost

“Hey, you wanna smoke a joint, before we do it?”  Such eloquent words from my husband of eight hours.

Weed gave me a headache. Not worth the throbbing pain. I was a two olive martini girl.

He had promised not to smoke in front of me. 

Our wedding night. In Las Vegas. He passed out. Always happened when he smoked too much and drank beer.

I found another beer in the hotel room frig. Took off the uncomfortable hot pink frilly nightgown he had bought for me.  Slipped into my sweats. Turned on “American Idol.” Raised the volume to drown out his snoring.

The next morning, I let him sleep, and began packing. Shocked to see he had stuffed hotel towels inside his duffel bag. What was that about?

I called my best friend. Told her about our wedding night. She had hated him from the first time they met. 

“Leave the bastard. Come home. You said he wasn’t that good in bed anyway.”

Why did I marry this guy? Desperate?

I brushed my teeth. Left him sleeping. Went downstairs to the breakfast buffet. Charged it to the room.

Walked back into the tacky wedding suite.  He had fallen out of bed. Not breathing. 

I pulled the stolen towels out of his duffel bag.

Checked his pulse.

My hands shaking.

Dialed 911.

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Rosanne Trost is a retired registered nurse. Since retirement, she has developed a passion for creative writing. Her work has appeared in a variety of print and online journals, including Chicken Soup for the Soul, Amsterdam Quarterly, Commuter Lit, and Temptation.