I love him. I do. Its beautiful and poetic and filled with laughs and intimacy and chocolate. Who wouldn’t love something associated with chocolate. i can’t help it.
The sun is setting and the sheets are rumpled. I climb into the shower. He wanders in, ice cream in hand, feeds me a bite and reminds me that his youngest’s birthday is tomorrow. “How old is he now, M? Ten?” Eleven, he tells me. I sigh and think to myself, “Fuck. Only seven more years…” Then I can properly love him in the fashion that he deserves. What started out a few years ago as me browsing the internet for a new conquest or simply, something to do, has manifested into this relationship.
By the time I discovered he was married, it was too late. I loved him. And still do. I tried to break it off, but I am mesmerized by the man who loves Bruce Springsteen and possesses an accent that is music to my ears. I withdrew myself, became an asshole. Told him to go home and fix his life, fuck his wife like he did me and maybe his problems would dissipate. I became busy, and saw other men. Readily available men. No one was charming enough, or educated enough or well traveled enough or enjoyed chocolate in the manner I did. No one fit the bill.
He wandered his way back in. I realized I was a provider. Not only of physical companionship, but love, and compassion and encouragement. My home and heart was a refuge, where he could put his feet up, watch sports and forget for a minute. He could talk to me about work, or his aspirations and I would listen. Little does anyone really understand this. With that being said, its not one sided. He has instilled a hunger within me. He gives me inspiration to be a better me, and have done well with academic and career pursuits with him in tow. He also provides me with the most beautiful breath taking ocean view condo, located in one of the most amazing cities.
Some may call me a home wrecker. Sure. But if it wasn’t me he met, it’d likely be someone. They decide to stay together for the kids. He has his own room. I don’t ask what goes on or what he does to keep the peace. Life is simple. We enjoy each other. We eat, we drink, we travel and explore. We talk about hopes and fears and what each of our futures hold.
As of late, she has been looking through his phone. She caught a glimpse into M and I’s life together. I was told I’d receive a phone call on Sunday. She wants me to know that I am being used for sex, that I am dirty and he doesn’t love me. The call never came, as I suspected it wouldn’t. She’s not interested in hurting me, just him. She knows I’m not being used.
It’d be easy for me to withdraw, and tell him to fix his life, I know he doesn’t want that. I don’t want that. He feels the closeness we have, as does she.
I laugh from the shower as my mind wanders. “Eleven already? Wow. Time flies when you are having fun, doesn’t it? Only seven years to go, M.”
He spoons me another bite of ice-cream. I smile. I can’t help it.