"...fucking scum, you know? .... Yeah, I know. But I guess I just thought that he'd..."
I had my earphones in, but the roar of the train as we hit a curve in a tunnel had overpowered the music; I'd hit pause and stared at my bag while
(more) listening to this woman who could have been me, talking to someone who could have been me.
We have hit this point now, the girls I know, when being single and sexy is dull. Married friends tease that we've started to envy their reliable lives, but the thought of coming home to my husband groping a neighbor's ex-wife doesn't sound like peace to me.
On nights when I am alone, after D__ has returned to the studio to fine tune some things he was working on, or after Lindsay is done crying on my shoulder, or when I have decided to forego the game, I consider what I want.
All that I have had is plenty. If only I could now weave in into one continuous rope, her humor, his hands, the way he felt under my legs. I would keep the sweet breath of my first love, and the literary bent of my last. I would keep my job, make it full time and triple the pay; my clothes would be as clean as they are on Sunday night.
When D__ taps on my window, I let him in, and we say nothing as he crawls in the window, a joke that is getting old.
The woman here is choking back tears and she disgusts me the way I do when I look in the mirror too long, trying to find companionship in my reflection. To be both and neither: but I want to be more and stronger, to spin it. (less)
