Some short (semi) fiction I wrote on a whim to sort through some feelings:
I see you there all sleek and toned, growing hotter the longer you're turned on, tempting the men around you to linger a while longer.
"Don't worry," my husband said, "She's just a friend. It doesn't mean anything." He kissed me and I relaxed ... a little, confident that you were out of the picture.
I'd be speaking to my husband at dinner, but our once sprightly conversations had been whittled down to one-sided chats with myself about the merits of TLC reality shows. As I chirped along about "Little People, Big World" I could tell he wasn't listening. He was thinking about you.
Yes you, with every spoonful of turkey chili I had so slovenly slaved away at that afternoon. I ignored it. Thought it might go away. But the ignoring got worse. The silence? Deafening. Now instead of perusing the romantic comedy aisle with me at Target -- which was our thing -- he sneaks away to "go to the bathroom", and I find him in YOUR aisle, mesmerized by all the games you two could play, all the disks he yearns to hand-feed you.
I tried to get rid of you, any sign of you, left like the proverbial lipstick on my husband's collar, but every time I was about to "accidentally" throw you off our two-story balcony, I held back. My husband had already spent so much money on you ... money I wasn't supposed to know about. Our jar of savings to visit Aunt Bertha, set atop the fridge as a reminder of our delightful plans to visit her in Duluth? Gone. Empty. Just like my heart.
I hope you're happy, with your seductive sensor remotes and optional nunchuks. Yeah, I may not offer a fitness package for an additional $89.99, but at least I can make turkey chili ... and let me tell you: That used to mean something. Then you came waltzing in just like you probably did to millions of other homes, but you can't fool me because there's a word for you: Homewrecker. Yeah I'm sure I'm not the first person to utter this nickname in contempt, so I suggest you get used to it. Instead of that slutty "W" tattoo on your side that you probably got in Mexico on some spring break trip in college (how original), all you should really have is a big red "A" across your chest, because that's who you are, my dear: Hester Prynne.
Don't look shocked. I know when my husband introduced us that you thought this was going to be a three-way thing, even though I swore I wasn't the type. I remember he made mojitos with bottom-shelf rum and tried to liquor me up to play with you and him like some sycophantic back-alley tryst in North Panama. At first it seemed fun, but on my third Bocador mojito I knew I just wasn't "that kind" of girl. And here we are now, you still in the equation. You, "that kind", the kind my husband lusts after.
This sick sadistic game climaxed last week, late one night when "the kids" were asleep. I could hear a clamoring of buttons from the living room, and when I followed the haze of flashing blue light cast from the television, I found him there, with you. He holding your goddamn nunchuks in his guilty hands. That was the final straw.
I'll be taking you out to our balcony ledge soon, when he least expects it, perhaps when he's out philandering with one of your sisters at a friend's house. But this time it won't be off our two-story patio. Oh no. This time I'm taking you all the way to the roof.
(alternate title: "Ode to the Wii"). Written on July 13, 2009 at 2:33am, out of sheer frustration!
Masters of Sex: Surrogates
21 hours ago