Who: Matilda and Clyde What: Matilda's rage spans continents. Clyde is vaguely amused, and then not so amused at all. When: August 19, afternoonish Where: Shreveport, LA - Clyde's place Warnings: Probably some swearing, mentions of violence. Matilda is noooot a happy camper.
Matilda always told herself that she would never be that ex-wife. The one that, in her bitterness and fury, obsesses and fumes and practically stalks. She hadn't been for seven years, after all - why would she bother starting now? She promised herself she wouldn't be that person, and now, thanks to whatever sadistic bastard decided to stick Luna Lovegood with her and poor Neville Longbottom with her sleaze of an ex-husband, she couldn't help herself. Coming to Clyde's and working on their project (and getting slightly drunk) had helped a little, but as soon as Clyde went to work in the morning, Matilda lost her distraction, and then she lost her willpower.
She killed time for as long as she could, but really, there was only so much bad day-time TV she could make herself watch, and she was afraid to touch the transporter without Clyde around. She even stared at his computer for nearly an hour, before, during, and after a late lunch, trying to convince herself that logging on and checking Jack's journal was a very, very bad idea. It didn't work.
First she found the gossip post, and the bit about Clyde - she was shocked to see it, but she was more confused by it than anything. "A pitcher for the losing team, what does that even mean?" she murmured to herself, and she rolled her eyes. Americans and their sports idioms. If only they spoke English. She navigated away from the gossip post and clicked on Jack's introduction, her stomach tightening anxiously. She skipped over her father's conversation and her own with Jack; she didn't need to read that again, it would only make her feel worse. But then she saw the next conversation, with a woman she recognized but didn't know.
The more she read, the more she felt like vomiting. At the time of the conversation, he'd barely been there six hours, and he was already trying to shag this poor woman? At the very same time he'd been baiting her? "You despicable little fucker," she said, much louder than she'd intended. "Man, my ass - you're no better than a dog!" And with that, she signed off with as much anger as she could muster and sat there, huffing and swearing to herself. "Manipulative oaf. Shameless tosser. Fucking barbarian!" If she'd been at her own flat, she would've gone into the kitchen and broken a couple of dishes, but since she wasn't, she settled for kicking the wall. That was satisfying enough, for the moment.