I choose you, and sometimes I don’t know why
My darling,
Talking to you can be excruciating. I can’t spend the limited time I have on the phone with you talking about her, and how crazy she is and how manipulative she has become and what the lawyers are conspiring to do and how the forensic accountant is going to hold your papers from Berlin. I can’t do it, as curious as I am. My body tells me these conversations are poison.
Why don’t I stop you? You bite your tongue when you catch yourself and insist I interrupt when you begin but some how all that I do is get tense and nauseous and despairing and allow you to continue. Why am I punishing myself like this? Do I feel guilty loving you? Do I feel that I don’t deserve you and must punish myself for it? Is it just an ugly habit now? Or am I wallowing in self-righteousness and voyeuristic pleasure watching her deperate attempts to defend herself.
I tell you this: it makes me jealous to know that she is playing the good wyfe and making dinner every night. Don’t tell me how good the soup was. Don’t tell me your child had two bowls. Don’t fucking tell me you made the salad and the lemon cake she baked was tart just like you like it. It doesn’t help that you say it is all a farce. It doesn’t help.
I can make it to May, living with you in our little european fantasy bubble, but if this farce goes on for much past that, I will take my thirty-one inch suitcase and my three shot espresso maker and plant myself somewhere else. Far from you and your mess that you can’t seem to get out of fast enough for my taste. Let me remind you that I was doing just fine before you came along. There were men who told me they were lucky to know me, men that tied me up and held me down and made me wetter than I have ever been, men that would drive for hours to see me one last time, then fly to europe to see me once again. Maybe it won’t be the same on the other side without you, but it will be just fine.
I choose you, and sometimes I don’t know why,
kitty
