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IMPERFECT
PRESENT
Ihaven’t been touched in so long, every time I pass a mirror, I pick myself apart.
If I weren’t so tired, if I didn’t let motherhood and work become my whole life, maybe he’d look at me the way he used to.
Maybe he’d yearn to touch me the way he used to. Maybe he’d look up from his phone and tell me how beautiful I am. Or smile just long enough for it to take up his whole face the way it used to.
Years of these thoughts were enough to drive me over the edge.
Is the tepid love I’d endured the last few years worse than hate?
How does someone who was once your safe space, turn into a stranger in your bed?
And one day, I decided I didn’t want to live like this anymore.
I plant my feet firmly in the present with a shake of my head as I stare back at my reflection in the mirror next to my desk.
Long dark hair sways with the movement and I glance past my reflection at the clock on the wall.
“Fuck,” I mutter, snatching up my purse, phone, and keys in as I scramble to leave the office. Miley’s back in New York and I’d sent my assistant home early, wanting to sit alone with my thoughts.
Except I’d sat there far too long and I’m now running late picking up my girls from school.
I groan as I walk out into the heat, pissed because I am once again a victim of the tumultuous New England weather. This morning was cold and miserable and sometime between now and then, the whorish sun decided to show its ass. As I get in my car, I yank off my long-sleeve shirt, thankful that I have a tank top underneath.
Traffic is light as I maneuver my way to the private school they attend, frustrated that the stay-at-home Stepford wives are probably going to look at me with pity.
Did you hear they’re getting a divorce?
Poor kids.
She’s hardly on time as it is.
Fuck them.
I brake hard as I pull up to the massive brick building where we pay entirely too much money for my daughters to get a decent education, thankfully not as late as I thought I’d be. I put my car in park at the end of the line at the curb and hop out, ready to grab Penny and Jilly and get the fuck out of here.
In a sea of kids they’re nowhere to be found, and I feel the pressure of scrutiny from the faculty that are lined up at the doors. Even if I’m just imagining it.
“Sabrina?”
I stop short and close my eyes. Because no way. No fucking way.
“It isn’t my day, is it?” I ask as I turn to face Peter.
His blond hair is slicked back in that Clark Kent way, and the smile on his face is patient. Brown eyes regard me, slightly squinted, his head tilted.
“Nope,” is all he says as I glance around, zeroing in on the group of moms who stare at us. One of them will probably try to fuck him. It puts a weird heaviness in my stomach, even though this is all my fault.
I’m a fucking mess of odd thoughts and pent-up frustration. With myself, with societal norms, and with the fact that I’ve never been this person before.
“Sabrina…”
“Fuck,” I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest, wanting the day to be over already. It’s then that I remember.
“Are you wearing a bra?” Peter asks, trying to keep his gaze on my face and failing.
