Scales and Lifetimes and Cheaters

February 24, 2014

I fucked him in my car. Drunk on something and high on something else but oh yes I wanted it. Bad, because you were not here, had left me for Italy, and we were only dating for a handful of weeks. I was expected to wait for you. Wait eight months for you.

I fucked him in my car while I waited and I fucked him in his parents shed, drunk on the cheapest vodka we could buy and he smiled when I took off my shirt and I was happy to show him.

Oh I regretted it. The moment you came home I had wished it never happened. You, with your hair so dark over pale skin and your big lips and that confidence — that confidence I loathe now but once loved. I tried to hide it from you and when it seemed I couldn’t I told you that I kissed a boy, a friend, and you made me cry but you forgave me. You fucked a girl in Italy but did not tell me and I thought you must be an angel.

Then our relationship – what a strange thing. Seems so far away to me now, so distant. How many lives do we live in a lifetime? I thought you killed me. Lost ten pounds in a week, on an already 110lb frame, and you brought me down to an even 100. I thought it was fitting, to look the same way I felt, dead and hollow. She told me everything, everything you said to her and here we were three years into it and I with a ring on my finger and you whispering promises to a 17 year old girl in New Jersey.

All those secrets you kept. All those women – the three in Minnesota, fucking Minnesota! Jesus Christ, was your goal to fuck a girl in every state? Italy! Every goddamn country, too.  I could not eat, could not breathe could not think or work on school projects. Failed a paper, skipped work, lost more weight, and you wanted me back. Oh I didn’t love myself back then, only you, and so I could not live without you, did not want a world without you.

I must have been pathetic. Took you back and was relieved. And then the drugs to forget, so many goddamn drugs. Every day, drugs and more sex and less thinking and no money for food, who needs food, never gained the weight back and I thought I looked good.

Everybody cheats. I’ve never met a man who wouldn’t cheat and me, well you know me, always need someone to touch. We broke up a year later. My friends convinced me you weren’t the one, and I was always so miserable and then there were the drugs. The drugs, which had become a bigger problem than expected. I don’t blame you but I hope you are still taking them, sniffing them, maybe you’ve moved to heroin.

Months later and here I am with a married man next to me. You are a distant memory, a bad memory but one that doesn’t hurt anymore. I do not love you, do not love to love you, do not cry because you cheat. And so here I am, a married man next to me and a friend in front. I explain to the friend why I don’t believe in marriage. Don’t want to have to be with someone, a commitment on paper, all bullshit as far as I am aware. The married man is attractive, wants me but can’t have me, dreams of what could be if it weren’t for that paper. The friend admits to cheating with a man in a relationship. Tells me he wasn’t married, just dating. I tell her it’s not so bad then.

Then I think of you.

You are so far away. So far away, that I no longer shout for the women who are stuck in the rotting hole.  No, I tell my friend it’s not so bad. I flirt back with a married man. On a long enough timeline, everybody cheats.


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