Stripes are the cheapest fashion statement I could afford on his writer's salary. But I dream of soft, rich silks covering this body of mine.
Ha. I remember when his looks used to promise silks and fine living, and a helper around the house, so I could spend some time reading the books he read . . . the books he thinks make him smarter than me.
Look at him. Head down, concentrating, wet forehead. I wonder where in his books they say it's okay to wipe your mouth with your hand and stare at your plate and chew without looking up once at the woman who cooked it.
I know it's not the food that keeps him here though.
I don't want to, but I'll shower and put on the coarse lace that keeps him here. Don't really know what I hate more, the rough lace I bargained down for or the grainy tips of his fingers on my breasts . . . between my legs. I smile and moan because it makes him (and me sometimes) believe I want him here.
He can hardly wait to finish to get to the computer.
He says he's writing but he never shows me what he writes. But I went to high school just like the people he says he's writing for.
One day he left the computer home and I read something about a past love he had. She was somebody who was always a mystery to him . . . exciting . . . elusive . . . spontaneous. Words that don't describe me, I suppose. I cried for two days. I don't think he noticed.
Oprah once quoted somebody who said an unhappy relationship could ruin your health. That's the kind of everyday stuff, the real stuff he should write about. That's the kind of truth and consequence that people care about, right? Who cares about spontaneous, exciting, elusive?
I wonder what fancy words he would use to describe the man whose clean, soft fingers spread me open wide? Wonder how he would describe the look on the man's face when I finally said yes, I'm ready? Wonder how he would describe the things I told that man to do to me?. . . things I never imagined I'd ever say . . .
Spontaneous. Ha.
I've been in this room for about two hours now folding clothes while he writes. He'll write way into the night.
Coarse red and white striped cotton. More coarse blue and yellow striped cotton. I like the lines though. The lines go up and down and never touch. And some of them look like circles around me when I wear them. My life is cotton lines right now.
But I think I still have time for silk.
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Ooops! This post is a response to The Seeker's "Bastard."
