“Marry her.” Were the instructions that I regrettably obeyed. The behaviors and lifestyles of this woman, no – my wife, make morals cringe. Sometimes I watch her tie all her bows, ring her bells, blow her whistles. The scent of her crimped hair burning against heated metal plagues my nose. Delicate fingers paint colorful exaggerations across features I’ve defended as naturally beautiful. The color red is more than the lip’s favorite – it spreads across her whole body. Crimson lace closes over outspoken curves as though she’s seized in a trap set herself.
The final touch is a spray of strong perfume, whose shapely bottle suggests forbidden thrills. Liquid jasmine and amber leak over the fair collar bone and into the divulged crevice of her chest. She’ll stride readily out the door; a good three of four inches taller than what was God-given. Without so much as acknowledging that I exist, her faithful dog, chained in commitment.
Eventually she comes back, the jasmine and amber rubbed off in a churn of her own sweat and that of other men. The red of her lips is paled and smeared over her petite chin and part of her flushed cheek. Her fine strands and conditioned curls became tangled and matted on her neck. The lace, the net she’s been caught in, possesses one or two snags I can’t hope will free her.
More often than not her teary eyes briefly meet with mine before she finds peace in a bed she’ll share with anyone but her husband. Impatiently I wait, years pass, my jealousy and desperation are stale in vain, hoping to reach her. Suffering her betrayal every day until a voice quietly said, “That’s you.”
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