For the past fifty eight days I have been trying to convince myself that, even for once, my instinct could go wrong. Fifty eight days it took us till the first time we ever made love. Likewise, fifty eight days is the time limit I gave myself to unveil the truth.
In the beginning it was all about deep denial with me pretending that this is indeed our best we have ever been. Every day I would cook and wait for him to dine on that fine table he bought us last year. Carefully I would observe him while taking each bite as if he was something sacred. But he was, and still is, my god. Finishing his supper, I would royally strip down and get down to my knees to surprise him with my new extravagant lingerie. The lady in the shop must have thought me a psychopath for buying fifty eight different sets of black laced set matches.
Reliving the dawn of our affair, he would have me at just about any time; anywhere. On the top of the washing machine to that dusty corner by the fireplace, I gave myself to him just like I did from day one. Yet how come I have been feeling so empty right afterwards? One moment I would literally and metaphorically be at the top of the world and the next thing you know, I was striving for pure isolation. Even the bare sound of his voice in combination with that flowery perfume smell on his jacket; got me all frustrated and at the same time so depressed.
When alone, I performed these endless monologues outlining to myself that this was probably a figment of my imagination. I didn’t do anything wrong – for if I had, he would have told me, right? Visiting the grocery shop on a daily basis in order to buy ingredients for our dinners, today I abruptly turned into a monstrous bitch paying attention to the till sound for the first time as the cashier was scanning the item barcodes. It was annoying, interrupting my thoughts. Leaving all the stuff there at the checkout, without even paying, I exited the shop marching with a quick step. I was in great need of breaking or ripping something apart, more particularly something that belonged to him.
Entering his study, I searched for his most beloved item. Contemplating that breaking his things would be below me, I searched for a hint, something proving his guilt. I dug through his drawers and wardrobe like another Sherlock Holmes. Ensuring that everything was as I originally found it, I rested for a bit as, disappointingly, I discovered nothing.
To my great despair, I opened the holy book and skimmed through its pages while bargaining with God, telling him that the truth had to be unveiled and that I had the right to know. An inner voice then told me that if I am never to ask then I will never know. We came to accordance with the mysterious voice while tying my good housewife apron, beginning food preparations – tonight I was to cook my love’s favourite meal.
Repeating the same old procedure for the past fifty seven days, I followed the plan. With both hands holding my cheeks, I watched him chew that pasta, sighing every once in a while for I used to be in love with that view. Meanwhile, all I could think is that I deserved an Oscar for my performance in acting so calm. Removing my palm from my cheek, I reached for his hand – more specifically his right hand, the one he wore his wedding ring on. You know, the one he’s supposed to wear since he is fucking married to me.
Cuddling his fist knuckles tenderly and in a repeated pattern, this sweet second brief moment of ours was disturbed by the buzzing of his phone. His hand suddenly felt cold and sweat appeared on my dear husband’s forehead. Out of blue I noticed his hair had gradually been falling out, predicting how he was soon to become bald. Poor him, he must be having a hard time being married to me. That would be a great excuse for fucking another woman.
In a moment of awkwardness, he quickly rejected the call and turned his gaze towards me with an uncomfortable smile. Concentrating all the strength and calmness that this universe had ever seen, I let those words come out of my mouth.
“Honey, are you cheating on me?” I asked in the most smoothing voice while his hand was capped by mine.
Wide-eyed, and a perfect poker face he sat there looking into my eyes. From that point on I sincerely cannot recall what occurred – the volcano had finally erupted. The psychologist clearly categorized the five stages of grief and loss in that first session we had. First comes denial and isolation which are then followed by anger. Third follows bargaining and then the depression stage it is. Been there, done that and, boastfully I can claim that I coped quite well with each stage.
Nevertheless, there was one particular stage with which I terribly struggled – acceptance. What can I say; I had a hard time letting go. He had to be punished. That motherfucker ought to experience, at least once, the hell I have been in for the past fifty seven days, ever since I found about her.
Τhe only way for him to experience hell was to actually be in it.
And oh, can I be creative and attentive when creating hell! About as much as I am when cooking his dinner.