That night, however, was different. He came home from work earlier than usual with a bouquet of flowers and a kiss with an actual spark. I'm not sure if it was the surprising scent of gerbera daisies that covered up the stench of that whore or if I allowed myself to look past his infidelities for yet another night so we could be in love again. He looked so good that night; still in his suit jacket, his chestnut-colored hair freshly cut, and the shirt I had given him earlier that morning that made his ice blue eyes melt with just a glimpse. He took me to dinner at Château de Delicatessen where, for a moment, he paid more attention to me than any other juicy morsel that landed on his plate. Of course, all good things must come to an end. Everything went back to normal the second we stepped through the door to our humble abode. I paid the sitter and he thanked her for her time. After quickly making lifeless love to each other, he once again retreated to the couch and I fell asleep, cold and lonely, on my bed for two,
Tonight, however; tonight he is not getting away with it. Our life, our family, my marriage will not play second-string to that filth anymore! He follows the same routine every night. Right now he is taking his clothes off and jumping in the shower before he falls sleep to the faint glow and low hum of late night television. I walk into the bedroom we have shared for close to a decade and see his shirt slumped over his dresser. The noise of the shower hides the the sound of my footsteps, allowing me to live in my own moment and observe the situation like a fly on the wall. My eyes, keeping focus on his shirt like a lioness to her prey; my memories of that night playing over and over like a never ending slideshow. I chose that shirt out for him hoping he would wear it with me in mind. No, he wears it for her.
What has been the point these past few years? Why did I bother with a huge, fancy wedding and a photo book that captures every moment of our holy matrimony leading up to our happily ever after? When will our happily ever after come? No! I will no longer cry, not for you! How could she? How could you? How dare you! Why did you take that away from me? Why can't you let me be happy? You don't deserve me! You don't deserve this life, our life! We loved each other once. That meant something to you, to us! What about this house, this house we worked so hard to make a home? You don't fucking deserve this house! You don't deserve any of it! My heart is racing and my breath has gotten heavier. Panting hysterically, I reach for the bottom button on his shirt and pull and yank until- snap! The button pops off and all of my anger and excitement rushes through my soul and out my body in an orgasmic, colliding rush.
The shower water turns off and I am frozen, staring in shock at the intentional damage I created on my beloved's apparel. A smirk creeps onto my face. For a moment, I have won. You have been defeated on my terms. It was me, not you, that ruined a perfect piece of us. I know what I have to do next. I calmly walk to the top drawer of my desk and get out my sewing kit. I pull out the needle and thread and begin to reattach the button back to it's original place. As I thread the needle in and out of each hole, securing the fastener in place, I could not help but smile with delight. This is mine. Every time you wear this shirt, with your piercing blue eyes that light up the room, I will know. Everybody will compliment your attire and tell you how perfectly handsome you look, but it will always be damaged. The public eye can only see so much. The wreckage is often what lies beneath.
*a short story by Emily Street*
"And writing was one of the things that saved me: the discipline and abstraction of putting my life into words, every day, helped me to cope with shame and it's first cousin, despair." ~Shantaram
This post goes out to my writing allies- Jordan Ramay and Paolo Baker
