Nine

My dear,

When I met you, you were extraordinarily handsome. We shook hands and I couldn’t help my smile: the weird, one corner upper than the other, my cheekbones more exclusive than usual. A raised eyebrow, because you trained your eyes on my left one, and it felt like you could read my the little barcode on the back of my brain, scan it and I would have to pay. You’d make sure of it. You see, it was a sort of I want to break free, because your hair shone in the shitty light, and it made me want to touch it. I’d seen you before but your bright eyes never caught mine. Then you spoke and I swear I was gone. The only way that could have been more poetic was if I had balls and dropped a hand to readjust. Alas, no.

When I met you, my dear, you were laughing. You were carefree and had such a beautiful filthy soul. You could drag me to and through hell. I like to think that if  I were her, you would have. I wasn’t, so you settled. Once. Twice. Again. Then a maybe, a nipple twist, a loose button, a drink, a hug, a quick word. Again. It was all over the place; we were all over the place. I was trying to love you and you had always loved her.

We bonded over that. I whispered the hate, you laughed with me. It was almost normal life, if I hadn’t been so fascinated, so unbelievably needy.

I can fix you. You know I can fix you. I can put the pieces back together. I can help. I want to. The deal would not be the blessed ten years, it would be you giving me what I need. Could you? Could you give me all I need so that I wouldn’t stray? Could you fucking love me like you love her?

I’m used to being people’s other one. I’m used to watch and judge and laugh and hurt a little when I see the people whose other I am with their loved one. You don’t love someone that much if you stray, do you? I like the cynical side of it. I like it because it’s real. It’s what reality means: you date or marry or promise or whatever the fuck you want, your loved one – the one you love the most, the most important person in your life -, well… they stray. They go and fuck that other one. They do it again, and again, and again, they invest; and not money, that’s the rookie version. No, they invest feelings, and they care, and still… they come home to you. Look you in the eye when they come inside you. They tell you they love you. But if they did, why look for something else? Why stray? They don’t love you. Not the same way they love the other. You’re a nice armchair they like to relax in every now and then.

Excuse me, my dear. I seem to have ranted quite a bit. You know I do that. But yes, if you could give me everything I need, I wouldn’t stray. Why do that? Do you understand how important this deal is? What have I told you every single time we spoke? I don’t date. I don’t commit. I don’t care. Well, shit.

Cause you make me do. Cause I want you to be okay. I want you to laugh and be incredibly handsome again, carefree and with a beautiful soul.

I’ll kiss it better.

Part lust and part love,

Jo.

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