”Six years wasted. Six years for nothing.” That’s what he said when I left him.
I was 29, panicking over where my life was heading. Whether I wanted to stay in the backseat of someone else’s car, or get in the driver’s seat of my own, finally. He was 27, ready to start a family. For him, our six years together had been an investment in the future. I erased that future with six words.
”Six years wasted. Six years for nothing.” These are among the most significant phrases in my life. They will always stay with me. Reminding me to treasure every day. Even the bad ones. Nothing is wasted. You will always have something to show for the love you spend. If only a scar, reminding you to spend it more wisely next time.
I hope, dear Martin, that you have come to realize this too. Finally.
The day you came back, your presence hit me like a fist.
You turned my way, I turned away.
My stomach turned. My throat ached.
The room froze, but my skin burned.
Want to cry. Want to throw up.
Every time I see you.
I hate you.
I want you.
Still want you.
You wanted to fuck me. Feel my naked skin under your hands. Touch my cunt, squeeze my buttocks and my breasts, bite my nipples and grab my hair. Taste me and hear me moan with pleasure. With pain.
You wanted to come inside me. Take me over.
And I wanted it too. But most of all I really, really wanted you to kiss me.
I walked into this year looking for love. Got sidetracked by lust and ended up with a bruised heart. Rattled. Confused. Back at square one.
He walks on, feeling nothing, like nothing ever happened. A family man.
The worst part isn’t that he won’t love me. I never expected him to. The worst part is his silence. Because I thought I was more than a body. I thought I was his friend. I expected some respect. Some compassion.
Yes, that’s it. A little compassion.
On the other hand. How could I ever expect respect and compassion from a man who betrays his wife?
There is a man I know. He is funny. Very smart. We can talk for hours. He smiles when he sees me. He is kind, and would never ever hurt me.
There is another man I know. He is funny. Very smart. We can talk for hours. He smiles when he sees me. Undresses me with his eyes. Hurts me all the time.
And I let him.
Why won’t I let a good man not hurt me instead?
If I knew her, I couldn’t do it. If I knew her, the fantasy would burst like a troll in sunlight. True, I have seen her once. But her face made no lasting impression.
Now my masochistic heart paints pictures in my head.
She is strong and intelligent. She is funny. She is in touch with her dark side. She is attractive. Not strikingly beautiful, but stylish and athletic with a decent face. She loves him. And he loves her.
She is me. But I’m not her.
They are softer now. Caressing my face as much as my body. Curious. Smiling. Then again sometimes they are sad. Troubled.
They are giving me hope.
Damn his eyes.