Gosh, it has been a busy week- make that two. But I promise I have written- just not on here. It’s the transcribing from my old fashioned hand written notes that is hard, the tapping and auto-correct on my iPhone is pure craziness. I really do need to dust off my trusty little laptop and become more efficient. But I do love writing in a fresh notebook (paper) with actual ink. It makes me feel, well, you know- like a writer. 🙂 This piece was/ is part of a larger novel I’m writing about a regular woman (like me) that has an affair. Just how it starts, how she deals, how it ends. Nothing too dramatic, just how it could happen to anyone.
One of the challenges of writing and being good at it, is your audience is never quite sure if it is autobiographical, and if not, how was your research conducted? I think we must claim artistic license and shrug coyly, like magicians – “It’s magic, baby…”:)
I got up from the bed with a start, nudged awake by the uncomfortable damp spot – a badge of our illicit love making. Silently, but deliberately, I began to dress. Tunic over head, leggings over hips, flats on feet, thong in purse. Who am I? My lips twist wryly as I tiptoe out the door, looking back for a final glance at Jaques, my lover as he sleeps, arm fling over his eyes and the other still curved, where I had nuzzled up to him just a few minutes prior.
“Oh what a tangled web we weave.” I mutter under my breath to myself, even as my eyes fall on the tangled mess of his taupe bed linens. Yes, I am the mistress of played out irony. Lover of the staggeringly handsome Jaques. Wife of(blank). It is a peculiar relationship we have, my husband and I. He needs me, and I need to be needed by him- together, the ultimate cliche. But we have weathered so much together! His alcoholism, my miscarriages. His unemployment, my depression. We owe it to our marriage counselors and therapists, if only for not to have wasted their time, and our money. It seems sad, written in black and white like that, but it really isn’t that bad. There is more that binds us than separates, and I for one am not ready to, nor capable of even – making this exhausting journey with anyone else. Or again, for that matter.
He thinks that this is a sign, of course. ” We are made for each other. No other couple in the world could go through what we have been through and still be…us. You know?” I know. Like I said, I wouldn’t do this with anyone else, but I do know that we do not have the healthiest of relationships.
Jaques says I’m his soul mate too. Poor kid. I kind of understand his rationale. I mean, why else would I be jeopardizing my marriage to be with him, he must wonder. “You are meant for me. We are meant for each other.” He says this after sex one day, as we share a cigarette, blowing rings of smoke up at the ceiling, circa 1800 B.C. Again, who am I? I almost groan with disbelief- what, has he been meeting up with my husband for coffee or something? I’m uncomfortable enough with the situation without the hearts and flowers stuff. I turn on my side and mumble some endearment that means nothing to me, but everything to my infatuated Lothario. But I think to myself how convenience has more to do with it, than any kind of destiny.