The gash was getting a whole lot worse.
I was happy for her. Truly. But up to a point. My happiness, for her happiness, only went so far. I always suspected she would be better of with some other man than with me. Not necessarily this new one of course. At the same time I would gladly trade away a piece of her well-being for some more of my own. If it meant I’d have her by my side. Selfish, I know. What can I tell ya?
Other women did not interest me as much. Nothing they ever did or said could make me as happy as her. Nor as sad. Obsession? Maybe. Piteous? Definitely. In the long run having people around me not fully knowing of my fixation made me feel somewhat more comfortable. It was as if I was some sort of spy leading a double life. Alright, it was never as exciting as that. I won’t give you that impression. There were no secret meetings on the rooftops of Paris, exchanging microfilm for political prisoners. Maybe I was more like a cheating husband. Ironically “the other women” being my wife, her being my mistress. In my mind’s eye.
Damnit this band-aid itches!
Then came Paige. The first someone who bothered. Tried to try. Her kindness offsetting her inability to understand me. That said; Paige has an uncanny ability to sense what parts of my personality are vulnerable and need mending. Had she been of crueler intent she could have pushed my buttons to the brink of meltdown. Destroying me with the littlest of ease. Maybe that’s what I needed. A nuclear wind sweeping in. Rolling back all of the superfluous nonsense built up by society and myself. Is that what she was? My radioactive darling?
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. As pleasant as our times together are I can sometimes sense that very certain uncertainty bubbling inside of me. No, it isn’t just gas. It’s bile (originating not from the liver but from years of rejection) that has fermented. And every once in a while it surfaces in the form of suspicion and fear. Was she really into me? Why would she be? Is she only playing with me? I never say such things directly, naturally. I hope I don’t fuck this up.
A little hate comes bleeding through.
Yoghurtspasm 