Substitute Wife

Close-up shows those hands zipping up Chanel Preston’s dress, smoothing the fabric tight over her curves, then clasping a bracelet on her wrist and painting her lips with lipstick. She doesn’t move; her eyes stay shut. The camera flips to the bed POV, Tommy Pistol standing over her with arms crossed, taking in his work. He thinks, disappears off-screen, comes back holding a pair of heels. He slips them onto her feet, checks the look again, and grins. “I hope you can hear me, honey,” he says, voice all sugar. He sits, takes her hand, then adds, “No, I KNOW you can hear me. Things haven’t been great since the accident. I could apologize a thousand times, but sorry won’t bring you back. All we can do is move forward. I’m committed to being better, to getting us through this. If this is the only way we can be close, then I’ll take it.” His eyes mist. He brushes a strand of hair from her face. “But tonight’s about something good, not the gloom. I’m gonna make it special for you, baby. You deserve it. I love you so much.” The doorbell rings. He opens the front door to Gianna Dior in a skin-tight dress, twirling a clutch between her fingers. “Hi there,” she purrs. He stammers her inside, tells her she looks beautiful, thanks her for wearing the dress he asked for. She spins, says it’s his night and the color looks great on her. The small talk dies quick. She scans the place, asks if he lives here alone. “Not exactly,” he mutters. She notices the nerves and strokes his arm. “Relax, baby, we’re both grown. I’ll take good care of you.” He admits it’s been a long time and he wants it perfect. She gets it. He asks if he can call her Bonnie. She says he can call her whatever. She asks his name. “Ron,” he coughs. He suggests they head to the bedroom. She’s been waiting for that line. At the door he stops. “Before we go in, I need to prepare you. My wife’s in there.” Amanda thinks threesome for a second. “No,” he says. “It’s easier if I just show you.” He swings the door wide. Amanda sees the woman on the bed, unmoving, and steps back. “I think I should go.” Ron blurts it out: Bonnie’s in a coma. Amanda softens, says sorry. Ron keeps talking, says he misses the closeness, that’s why he called Amanda—to let him be near Bonnie again, even if only pretend. Amanda thinks, then nods. She’ll do it. Relief floods his face. He kisses his wife’s forehead, then motions Amanda to the empty side of the bed. She hesitates, but steps in, sits down. Bonnie lies behind them, eyes closed. Amanda glances at her once, then turns to Ron, hand sliding onto his thigh. He tells her she looks beautiful, that he’s missed her. Amanda answers, “I missed you too, Ron,” and leans in. Their kiss turns hungry fast. She rubs the growing bulge in his pants while he kisses her neck. Over his shoulder she glances again at Bonnie, still staring straight up, lifeless, yet somehow watching.