Still in Love

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
It is a prologue of my story

Submitted: January 26, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 26, 2017



Like a cat sneaking with a stolen catch from the table where she was not supposed to be, I am resting on the couch glancing to the opening door pretending to be casual and unconcerned. You don’t know I changed my usual tracksuits into my lucky slim jeans. Who would have said that I would need luck with my own man? Uh, this is a real struggle for a dam of attention. 

As soon as I hear the steps on the stairs, as soon as I hear the crack of the lock my head turns. A simple sign of your existence makes me believe that with you still coming home we can still start over. 

I look through my shoulder while you unlace your shoes trying to have a sneak peek of the mood of my attention breeder. But you don’t send me any smile or any drop of love, although you splash a lot while you wash dishes, which I don’t care. Not anymore. 

I am really confused here. Don’t you love me? Don’t you at least like me? When did you start to treat me with that emptiness in your eyes, with that boredom on your shoulders, with that ignorance in your arms. Should I be happy you are looking at me at all? 

I try to joke, I try to flirt, but it’s hard to, because you don’t get my sense of humor these days. These months or maybe these years. It is supposed to sound sad, but it just came up pathetic. Like me sitting on the side of the sofa, seeing only your profile and feeling like I am across the ocean, the world, the planet and all the other banal things defining the distance.

I am so impatient, but I wait uninterrupted for you to notice and listen to me. How I am drowning without your attention, how I am desperately trying to reach another shore, how I think I won’t make it.  All I need is just a hand, but you are dealing with real kind of problems - solving conflict, sealing deals, decreasing famine. While I am cooking that risotto you love, cleaning that house you sacrificed everything for, driving our so awaited children to school. And reading, reading a lot. So I would be interesting, so I would be worth listening, so I would never be out of words when you do pay a visit to my side of the sofa. By the way what happened to your promise not to take work at home? 

Sometimes I do such strange things. Like I go out of the house just before he is coming back so I could proudly say I was away. No friends to visit, because I will get sick if I have to pretend I am happy for one more round of tea. I am scrolling the streets around the neighborhood for hours, until I see there is a light in our window. “Where have I been? Oh you know just had some meetings in the city.” Does he care? I don’t think so. But if I hear this lye a few more times I could start to believe in that myself. Getting so good at creating stories about morning laughs, evening dinners, midnight sex. But I don’t consider it a lye, I say it's a memory and you have to remember it once in a while or it will fade away. 

It’s not like I am innocent, it’s not like I didn’t put my share into his coldness. I don’t wash my hair as often as before, I don’t wear a little black dress and high heels when we go to dinner, sometimes I don’t cook I just warm something in the microwave. I don’t say how I am proud and thankfully for you and your hard work, I tend to shy away from new experiences and I don’t like to turn on the light anymore when we do it. I traded few evenings with you for a homework with our son and then it became a habit, I gave up that yoga class which got me few kilograms bigger. I shouted at you when you had the idea that we needed an extension in our family - a dog. I wasn’t so smart or funny at your work Christmas party as your charming sexy colleague with a perfect straight hair. I did ask you to go home early that night and then fell asleep as soon as I put my head on the pillow. I am the reason of your coldness, yet I keep thinking that somehow it will melt down like ice cubes do in your glass of whiskey. But I am afraid you will not be drinking it with me. 

I try to kiss you when you least expect it. And sometimes you even respond to that. These are my happy days. But I have to be careful and not to spook you. “I don’t want anything more from you, don’t be afraid.” Of course I am lying. I do. But I will not gamble your warm hug to get something more. I don’t want to be banished from your side of the couch. I can’t ask for a chat, because you had a long day, because you are tired, because you are out of words, because you deserve a silent moment for yourself. Although you don’t mind the sound of your phone which tells you got another message, you don’t mind the sound of your keyboard when you are writing to someone. I checked my phone - it’s not for me. 

I have imprisoned myself in my bubble. I talk to myself how my day has gone, I say I did a great job, I am a good mother, I say I will still have time to fulfill my dreams when my kids get older. I say one day you will get back to me with that sparkling love I felt twenty years ago. But the truth is even though you say it more often, or more loudly it will not become true. The truth is I forgot how it feels to be loved by you. The truth is I found out how it feels to be loved by someone else.

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