Diary of a Mistress, Day 4,689

it isn’t as if i am ignorant of reality. not as if i do not know how ‘this’ goes.

first, there is the establishment of ‘the problem’ — the reason why it’s hopeless, utterly, and even though the legal leash is still there, it’s ok. we can pretend it isn’t.

yeah. right. momma always said i was cynical, but seems to me the leash is a comfort whenever i see a teacup yorkie straining from across the street after a german shepard lounging, tongue lolling out with laughter, content to let the yappy have his moment for knowing full well it’s all he’s got.

so ok, we pretend. me especially, because you don’t play with these kinds of dreams without knowing in advance they can never come true. it’s part of the secret, you know. part of the punishment.

for a while, it’s all upside down, and you can actually believe it’s going to be different, that somehow, the miracle-fairy-tale-maybe-could-be-more-than-a-dream is going to become real. true.

just because you believed. just because you tried. just because of some mystical accountant keeping track way up on cloud nine, counting your cycles, noting your head as it clears his cloud and drawing a careful mark in a ledger and smiling for your closeness to ‘deserving it’ well enough to actually find it.

lousy fuck can’t be bribed. and doesn’t give away confidences. i’d hate him, but i hear he’s getting divorced.


anyway. you believe. you live it. and you love.

it’s all rivers red and randy for a while. every contact is breathless and the uncertainty is its own certainty. surely this time. surely.

it’s like laying down in ice and saying the prickling of your skin, chill going to hypothermia, is heat. it feels like it, for a moment, but only because any manner of destruction feels like heat when it’s burning your soul.

thing is, you always know the instant it is over. you know before you know. the chemistry has changed. it smells different long before he ever says a word.

the pauses are just a little longer. you notice he suddenly thinks about his wife and has to hurry home. not like in the beginning, when he was edison incarnate and inventions for remaining were endless.

suddenly, it’s hard for him to say he cares. and the word ‘love’ has been carefully hidden, as if the valentine isn’t bruised, bloodied, and smeared. as if hiding it magically restores it. makes it ready for the next time, withdrawing it with a flourish, bowing and delivering like a magic talisman… open seasame… speak, ‘friend’, and enter.


sometimes, i think it’s just that we both need to remember what it felt like to believe in dreams.

sometimes, i think it’s just that everyone needs a little shot of happily ever after so we can figure out how to deal with it being a lie.

i lie to myself and say it’s my way of making the world a happier place. and i lie to him and say it’s ok… i understand…

and no, i never really thought it could ever be any different. lie on lie on lie, until he can manage his own, tell me how we’ll always be friends as he’s hugging me in my hallway, as he’s putting the ring back on his finger with a look of relief….

as he’s admitting to himself that he’s only barking because he knows he’s safe…

as he’s reminding me that i’m just a bitch, laying on the sidewalk with my tongue hanging out.

and then, he’s gone. and there’s no hope that anyone could ever notice it isn’t laughter, it’s just the way nature made my mouth.

and i’m not laying here because i want to, i’m laying here because i can’t walk anymore.

and i’m not welcoming because i’m perfect, but because he’s willing to think i am and i’m tired of being unable to manage it. so i pretend. just like he wants to.

it’s all flagellation. loving whip with barbed hooks. long ago lamed, i’ve learned to love the abuse.

how sick is that?

momma said i should just strip. or get to europe and make an honest living of it. apparently, the mistress is something of an icon there.

i didn’t start out to be a homebreaker. but the woman who broke mine was so good at it, and i reckon my mother wanted to make sure i never turned out like her.

sometimes, i think the irony of that is the ugliest thing of all. because when i see it, when i look down the long avenue, i see nothing but bitches, tongues lolling and laughing smiles.

then i just put my head down and close my eyes. there’ll be another leashed terror along eventually. i don’t even have to look for them. they always let me know. they always bark.

the bite is more a metaphysical thing. teeth marks in my heart.

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