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I just hoped it wasn’t me.
* * *
“Get out and don’t you ever come back here!” I shouted at the latest Miss Last Night.
And then again the morning after that, “Get out and don’t you ever come back here! Ever!”
Miss Last Night was a busty girl with a shaved head. Or she was a tiny thing in fishnets and latex. She had a shaved pussy, a bushy pussy, a pussy trimmed into a tidy arrow. She had a nose ring, a WWJD bracelet, a chain between her pierced nipples. She had a tattoo of cherries on her neck, a tattoo of some guy’s name along her lower back, a tattoo of a cartoon character on her ankle. She had no tattoos at all. Miss Last Night had freckles across her tits, a birthmark on her hip, a scar on her long tanned thigh. Miss Last Night was every girl and no girl at all. Miss Last Night could be anyone, anyone at all.
Anyone but me.
“Is this getting to you?” Mason asked, pausing that morning’s “acting notes”.
He’d begun to jot them down on a little notepad that he always seemed to find no matter how expertly I managed to hide it.
I was folding a new stack of t-shirts I’d ironed a scorched hole into, and I paused too to glance back at him over my shoulder.
“Getting to me?” I repeated.
“I mean, it seems like it’s getting to you a little,” Mason said, drumming his fingers along his notepad. “Like me and all my fucking and all my not fucking you is kind of…I don’t know, getting under your skin.”
The neckline of Mason’s shirts stretched between my fists, the threads straining, popping loose.
Mason’s smug face. His merrily wiggling toes. His cock lying there against his stomach, spent and emptied and content as a goddamn alley cat on a sun-warmed tin trash can lid. I could wipe that smirk off his face. I could make his toes freeze. I could make him drag the sheets over his proud, exposed body in seconds.
I could tell him the reason it wasn’t, absolutely wasn’t getting under my skin. I could tell him that I was engaged. Finally tell him about Tim. Tell him that I got cock, good cock, whenever I goddamn wanted (mostly true). I could tell him that I had someone in my life who I didn’t want to chase off every fucking morning (also mostly true).
Looking at him and his little grin over my shoulder, I knew it would be so easy. So quick. Then it would be over.
Maybe that’s why I still didn’t tell him. Maybe that’s why I stuffed the remainder of his ruined shirts hastily into his dresser drawer and left his bedroom. Maybe that’s why I didn’t do anything but scream into the pillow in my room.
Because I didn’t want it to be over.
This arrangement with Mason was driving me mad. Absolutely mad. The desperate mews coming all goddamn night from his room were filling me with almost unbearable jealousy. That jealousy was filling me with almost unbearable self-loathing. And what did I want to do with that self-loathing? Get it fucked right the fuck out of me.
But I couldn’t because I had a fiancé and I wanted a divorce. I was able to remind myself of it only till I heard the front door open and whispers on the stairs and that first little gasp and then it was the whole cursed cycle all over again.
And again…
And yet I never used the biggest weapon I had. Never pulled the pin from the grenade that was in my back pocket and tossed it right onto Mason’s exposed lap there in bed. Never told him the fucking truth.
I don’t know what I thought. That one morning I would walk in and Mason would be alone? That he would pull back the covers and there would be only space for me? That he would open his arms wide and tell me this was all stupid, all silly? That he’d hold me and be honest with me about what happened between us when he left and be honest about how he felt now? That I’d like what I heard? That I’d believe him? Believe in him once more? That I’d tilt my chin up to kiss him? That it would be my moans filling the hallway? My sweat soaking the sheets? My hands gripping the bedframe that was putting holes in the wall behind it?
It was madness really. But it was my madness.
The days were passing and my plans were failing. It wasn’t that I feared I couldn’t wait the full thirty days to get divorced. To return to America. To return to Tim. It was that increasingly I feared I couldn’t last the full thirty days. That if Mason didn’t break and sign soon, I’d do something stupid.
Like throw myself at him.
Like fuck the shit out of him.
I had a couple more tricks up my sleeve, but I was getting desperate. I was having a harder and harder time believing that I truly wanted a divorce. That I didn’t want something else. Someone else.
Him.
