The physicality of it seems unnecessary, when my vibrator can achieve the exact same goal and in a fraction of the time. I’m too selfish to dole out pleasure to others. Which given the man I’m with would be nothing short of sacrilege in most women’s minds. Seamus is endowed beyond belief, passionate, attentive, romantic, and gorgeous. I’m fully aware that I’m wasting his resources with my lack of appreciation. I’ve seen the way women prowl him with their eyes, fantasies of role-playing the goddamn Kama Sutra written all over their horny, needy expressions.
My lust is for power. And that’s where sex comes in. Fucking is merely a means to an end for me. A power play. I’ve always taken this approach: my vagina is a weapon in my arsenal, and any stiff cock can be defeated by it. Weakened. Vanquished. It’s a tool to conquer.
And speaking of conquering. I win! Though my uterus objects vehemently to that statement.
I’m pregnant!
And I have a ring on my left hand!
And though I’d love to gloat and celebrate my victory in raucous fashion, I’m biding my time, quietly letting Seamus bask in the world I’m creating for me.
Yes, me.
There’s no we.
He can have the kid.
I just need the fa?ade.
Third time’s a charm
present
Divorce.
A severing of sacred ties.
The end of a dream.
The death of a family.
This word defines me.
The first time she asked me for a divorce was at the end of our first date. She was joking and followed it up with our first kiss.
The second time she asked me for a divorce was when she was in labor with our second child, a labor that due to its rapid emergence disallowed the administration of pain dulling drugs. She also told me she hated me, cursed my penis’s existence, and said my sperm were the devil’s work. I think it was the pain talking.
The third time she asked me for a divorce she meant it.
Third time’s a charm.
This divorce is all I think about. I dwell on it. It rules my thoughts, especially on a day like today. The kids and I are moving into our apartment, minus Miranda.
Because.
Divorce.
How can a word so benign become uglier every time I turn it over in my head? It’s just a word, seven little letters. Letters that should be harmless. But those seven letters have ganged up on me and every time I think about them, it feels like an attack. An attack on my heart. An attack on my children. An attack on my pride. An attack that’s muddied my soul.
Thank God for my kids. They’re my life. They’re my purpose. They’re my everything.
“Daddy, hurry up. I gotta pee.” It’s the pained, ‘I’m not lying’ whine of a little girl in dire need of a bathroom. My five-year-old, Kira, is standing at the top of the flight of stairs with her legs crossed, holding her brother’s hand. She looks so much like her mother: curly caramel colored hair, almond shaped eyes the color of the sky on a stormy day, and lips that form the shape of a heart when they’re resting one atop the other.
“I’m coming, darlin’.” The walk up the stairs is slow. My legs don’t work like they should, especially when I’m carrying a heavy box.
“Throw me the keys, Dad. I’ll get her inside.” Kai to the rescue. Again. He’s always been incredibly mature, but his mother leaving has aged him. A boy of eleven shouldn’t be expected to fill the parental void. He does though. And never complains about it. Maybe he saw our marriage falling apart before we did. Certainly before I did.
We were never perfect, but I didn’t suspect the affair.
I was in shock when the papers were served.
I was in denial during the entire court proceeding.
And I still half expected her to be there when I came home. Weeks after she moved to Seattle to be with him.
Him.
My downfall. The man who not only stole my wife, but who stole my kids’ mom.
Did that sound bitter?
Yes?
Good, because I am. I serve up my bitter with a heaping side of bitter.
I set the box down on the fourth or fifth step and dig in my pocket for the apartment key and toss it up to him. Apartment three, our new home. The throw is too hard, and it hits the door behind him with a tink and falls to the ground next to his feet. As he picks it up, I hear him whisper to his sister, “Come on, Kira, race you inside.”
She giggles and her feet start bouncing off the pavement as if she’s warming up for a sprint. I can’t help but smile at these two.
As I pick up the box again, I look at the front windows of the apartments just below ours—apartment one and apartment two. The curtains are drawn on both. For a moment, I wonder who’s inside. Families? Maybe there are kids for my kids to play with living there? The thought disappears as my toe catches the front edge of the stair three from the top. It’s not a violent, painful fall because the box I’m carrying breaks it for the most part. I’m embarrassed more than anything. The fact that my legs don’t always cooperate is embarrassing.
I glance behind me, down the stairs to the sidewalk and parking spaces below. No witnesses. The realization brings with it relief I didn’t know I needed. My heartbeat begins to slow, and I let out the breath I was holding; a strained breath that attempts to grasp at straws, better known as dignity. Maybe I should’ve looked for a first-floor apartment, but my stubborn side wouldn’t allow me to consider it.