He had another woman whom he saw regularly, semi-regularly, I supposed.
I had asked about it when I was away, he asked me, “Are you jealous?”
I answered, a little too quickly, “No.”
I was not planning to be someone’s girlfriend. When I was young, I was really hoping to become SOMEONE’S GIRLFRIEND. I tried to retain relationships and no one seemed to want to be with me, for the long term, and I thought I’d never marry.
Now I was older. Technically speaking, I was not supposed to develop long term relationships. But it would appear he wanted to keep me, for sometime, for a while, at least.
I told him that it was OK, once he told me that she was visiting, and asked me not to call during that time. I didn’t need to know that. Since then I knew that she visited, she enjoyed being the OTHER WOMAN, as it turned out. They had been fucking when he was with his other woman, the steady girlfriend, he had, just before me. She did not know about me. he never told her about me. I had my toothbrush and my toiletries in his place. He would put them away when I was not there, so not to distract the other woman, to invite questions, and to hide the fact that I existed in his life. He was terribly afraid of getting too involved with me, so he put away evidence of my existence. I found that to be charming.
I spent my youth worried about men not wanting to be with me; at my midlife, I began to have men worried about getting too attached to me.
I saw him once a week, or just about. He set aside his weekend for me. I was always the highlight of his week. I didn't sleep well with him. I fell asleep in his arms but then I'd wake up sick. I never slept well with men. I preferred my own bed. I preferred to fuck, and then leave. But with him I had to stay because we spent hours fucking. It was hours before we ended our act. I'd look at the clock mounted in the ceiling. And hours would pass before we'd end our sexession (Sexession: Sex Session). Finally I had decided to leave a few things in his place so I did not have to pack them each time. He stored them for me. He did not want her to find out and make a fuss.
No one wanted to know that they were not the only one, except me. I wanted to know so that I could regulate my feelings, to not fall in love; or remind myself why he was not worthy my love.
I missed the feeling of being in love.
I really missed it. I was lost without it.
So I wanted him to fall for me, eventually. Because I wanted to hear him say, “I miss you. I want to be with you. I want you to be mine. I love you.”
Then I could turn my back on him, and walk away.
That’s what you did when your heart was broken by others. You got into the habit of breaking other hearts, to compensate for your loss.
And sometimes I could tell there were genuine emotions there. He started to miss me and care about me. And one day I wondered if he’ll fall for me. I hope it would be soon.
Because part of me wanted to hit the ejection button, and I’d shoot up into the sky, and then I’d free fall, and think I’d die. I’ll be free falling and I’d finally be able to cry, and then just before I thought I’d break into ten millions of pieces, the parachutes would open; I would be flying again, this time, gracefully, through a calm descend, I’d eventually arrive at a meadow, and there you’d be waiting.
You, the person whom I had fallen once before, you were there to receive me. You’d be frail and gray and you’d tell me, “I’ve been waiting for you, all this time, all along. We belong. Be with me, until the end.”
At that precise moment, I’d realize that I never wanted to be the OTHER WOMAN. Or ONE of the women. You won’t be THE OTHER MAN any more. You would be mine, and my only.
But that would be a fairy tale. I had stopped believing in such things.
When your heart was trampled a few times by the same person, you stopped listening what was said to you but watch was done to you.
And you thought of not man whom you loved once, but the man who was in your life now and was willing to give it, this thing, a twirl.
I had asked about it when I was away, he asked me, “Are you jealous?”
I answered, a little too quickly, “No.”
I was not planning to be someone’s girlfriend. When I was young, I was really hoping to become SOMEONE’S GIRLFRIEND. I tried to retain relationships and no one seemed to want to be with me, for the long term, and I thought I’d never marry.
Now I was older. Technically speaking, I was not supposed to develop long term relationships. But it would appear he wanted to keep me, for sometime, for a while, at least.
I told him that it was OK, once he told me that she was visiting, and asked me not to call during that time. I didn’t need to know that. Since then I knew that she visited, she enjoyed being the OTHER WOMAN, as it turned out. They had been fucking when he was with his other woman, the steady girlfriend, he had, just before me. She did not know about me. he never told her about me. I had my toothbrush and my toiletries in his place. He would put them away when I was not there, so not to distract the other woman, to invite questions, and to hide the fact that I existed in his life. He was terribly afraid of getting too involved with me, so he put away evidence of my existence. I found that to be charming.
I spent my youth worried about men not wanting to be with me; at my midlife, I began to have men worried about getting too attached to me.
I saw him once a week, or just about. He set aside his weekend for me. I was always the highlight of his week. I didn't sleep well with him. I fell asleep in his arms but then I'd wake up sick. I never slept well with men. I preferred my own bed. I preferred to fuck, and then leave. But with him I had to stay because we spent hours fucking. It was hours before we ended our act. I'd look at the clock mounted in the ceiling. And hours would pass before we'd end our sexession (Sexession: Sex Session). Finally I had decided to leave a few things in his place so I did not have to pack them each time. He stored them for me. He did not want her to find out and make a fuss.
No one wanted to know that they were not the only one, except me. I wanted to know so that I could regulate my feelings, to not fall in love; or remind myself why he was not worthy my love.
I missed the feeling of being in love.
I really missed it. I was lost without it.
So I wanted him to fall for me, eventually. Because I wanted to hear him say, “I miss you. I want to be with you. I want you to be mine. I love you.”
Then I could turn my back on him, and walk away.
That’s what you did when your heart was broken by others. You got into the habit of breaking other hearts, to compensate for your loss.
And sometimes I could tell there were genuine emotions there. He started to miss me and care about me. And one day I wondered if he’ll fall for me. I hope it would be soon.
Because part of me wanted to hit the ejection button, and I’d shoot up into the sky, and then I’d free fall, and think I’d die. I’ll be free falling and I’d finally be able to cry, and then just before I thought I’d break into ten millions of pieces, the parachutes would open; I would be flying again, this time, gracefully, through a calm descend, I’d eventually arrive at a meadow, and there you’d be waiting.
You, the person whom I had fallen once before, you were there to receive me. You’d be frail and gray and you’d tell me, “I’ve been waiting for you, all this time, all along. We belong. Be with me, until the end.”
At that precise moment, I’d realize that I never wanted to be the OTHER WOMAN. Or ONE of the women. You won’t be THE OTHER MAN any more. You would be mine, and my only.
But that would be a fairy tale. I had stopped believing in such things.
When your heart was trampled a few times by the same person, you stopped listening what was said to you but watch was done to you.
And you thought of not man whom you loved once, but the man who was in your life now and was willing to give it, this thing, a twirl.
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