Two Weeks (Actually Thirteen Days)

              One step at a time, Thomas groggily approached the first floor of his townhouse.  He stopped near the bottom, spotting the missing occupant of his bed.  Her pretty face was hidden behind an armful of possessions she was limping towards the front door.
         She gazed over her belongings and heaved a befuddled sigh.  Car tires crunching over gravel sounded like bombs exploding out in what would have been the quite norm of the street’s nightlife.  Lines of the vehicle’s headlights snuck in through the blinds and rested their beam upon her.
         The woman wasn’t exceptionally tall, but she still had an inch or two on Thomas, he had noticed this the one time he walked in on her without heels.  She carried a few extra pounds, but they only added to her bubbly blonde persona.  The lines on her face, that she hadn’t bothered covering up this early in the morning, signified she was much older than she would ever claim to be.
         He being a few years younger and a few inches shorter than her didn’t matter to Thomas.  His eyes focused on her baby blues.  They were, after all, what had started it all. 
         They lit up, remembering something that must not be left behind.  She pivoted in her stilettos and nudged the small table that was beside her.  She winced, not out of pain, but because of the loud noise she had caused.
         Her eyes shot to the stairway and Thomas decided that was the time to descend the last few steps.    “Where ya off to?” he managed to inquire cheerfully, once his feet had touched the carpet.
         Panic stricken, she looked from Thomas, to the pile of bags in front of the door, to the door itself.  She wrinkled her nose and stated firmly, “My sister’s.”
         “God Dammit, Patrice!  We’ve been married for what?  Two weeks?”
         “Thirteen days.  So you shouldn’t be too attached.”  She scooped up her belongings and faced the door.  Her makeup case fell and as Thomas rushed over to her, he kicked it to the side.  She would have to go through him to get it and he knew she would move heaven and earth before leaving without it.
         Thomas put his hand on her shoulder and asked softly, “Can I at least know why?”
         She hesitated and then said, “Don’t you feel we --- jumped the gun a bit?  We’ve only known each other for a few weeks and now we’re married.”
         Embracing her from behind, he whispered in her ear, “And we have the rest of our lives to get to know each other.”
         Patrice gently placed her hand on his arm and said, “Still…”
         He let go of her and ran to the mantle.  He grabbed a picture frame and jostled it in her face.  It was a photograph of two people cutting a large layered cake.  The man’s brown hair was sneaking behind his squared glasses and into his eyes, while the woman’s blonde curls were perfectly intact.  Despite the couple’s differences in appearance they both were smiling brightly.
         “Look at this!  Look at this, Patrice!  Two weeks ago ---”
         “Thirteen days.”
         “Thirteen days ago you --- we were so happy.  What happened?”
         Patrice let out a wail and dropped the remaining bits of her bundle.  “Do you want to know the real reason, Thomas?”
         “My wife is walking out on me; I think I deserve the real reason!  At least for a little peace of mind.”
         Patrice choked out, “I went to the bank today.”
         “I don’t believe this!”
         “Don’t believe what?  I haven’t ---”
         Thomas cut her off, a bit frazzled, “I don’t believe you are standing here telling me you’re leaving because all of the money you will rake in over our settlement!”
         Tears welled up in her eyes and Patrice sobbed, “Thomas!  How could you say such a thing!  That isn’t it at all!”  She collected herself and tacked on, “Besides, a high school guidance counselor doesn’t make that much money.”
         “So, that’s what this is about!”
         “No, no, no.  Stop jumping to conclusions.”
         “Then what in god’s name are you talking about?”
         “I went to the bank today ---”
         “I think we covered that.”
         She hit him.
         “You hit me!”  Thomas grasped his shoulder.
         Patrice gritted her teeth, “Let me say what I have to say.”
         “Fine.”
         “I went to the bank today ---” Thomas sighed and she glared at him.  “There I was depositing some money and the teller said I had forgotten to sign the slip.  I took a pen out of my purse, you know how I hate the racket of the chains they’ve got attached to theirs, and I wrote Patrice.  P-A-T-R-I-C-E.  And then I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
         “Do what?”  Thomas looked at her genuinely perplexed.
         Patrice replied thoroughly disgusted, “Sign that god-awful last name of yours.”
         “It might not be the greatest of names, but it is certainly better than your maiden.  Honebrink.”  Thomas defended.
         “Your ---our --- my last name is Bumgardner!”
         “You’re leaving me because of my surname?”
         “I tried to get over it, really I did.  But I just keep thinking of all the people I will have to explain to that this is not a marriage of convenience, because you are not a gay porn star, and that we do love each other.”
         “You really think my name makes me sound like a gay porn star.”  Thomas mumbled, but then declared, “That’s beside the point.  You just said we love each other, shouldn’t that be enough?”
         She sniffled, “Will you change it?”
         “What?”
         “The name.”
         Thomas groaned, “You know my mother would flip.”
         Patrice gathered up her things and headed for the door.  “I’m sorry, but I can’t be Mrs. Thomas Bumgardner anymore.”
         Thomas stood in the center of the room, fuming, “Patrice.  I take it back.  I don’t love you.  I could never love someone so thick that they would leave someone over some stupid last name!”
         Patrice opened the door, making the sound of the car motor running outside distinguishable.  “It’s not stupid, Thomas.  Bumgardner is the shittiest last name I’ve ever had!”
         Thomas’s quick wit always missing when he needed it the most fumbled back with, “Oh yeah.  How many last names have you had?”
         Slamming the door behind her Patrice sneered, “You don’t want to know.”