So, a few years ago I was enrolled in a non-fiction writing class and we were encouraged to write about things that were real.
And I wrote and shared a story about my infidelity with my boyfriend of nearly two and half years.
So, I figure if I can share that with a bunch of strangers, I can share it with you all too.
This is called, "Reality" [for lack of a better name]
--He does pull-ups while I watch. I can never take him seriously. I count, he only makes it to ten. Nine more than I could ever hope to do. There’s a secure tendril of muscle that runs along his upper shoulders, extends briefly down the narrow hint of his back. I can’t help but think, “This is wrong.” He drops to the ground, plants his feet firmly in a way that only someone who feels they’re owed the world can do. There’s nothing he’s been denied. Not even my attention.
“Ready to go?” He asks, buckling at the waist to adjust his laces.
“A few more minutes,” I say, tentatively. “I don’t want to go back to the real world.”
“This is the real world.” He reminds me.
We go for a jog (if you can call it that.) I’m not much for physical activity so I tire out pretty quickly. We talk about plenty of things - his most embarrassing drunk charade, where he’s from, what he enjoys to do. He takes the time to make a break in conversation, points out the city scape as we pass it by. He wants to know plenty about me in return, but I fib. I’m not as interesting as he is. There’s a reward for my slow pace in the end, a strawberry-flavored popsicle. He decides on banana - or was it peach? I find it hard to remember because I was more interested in the shape of his mouth, the color of his eyes. They were blue.
“You don’t know what hot-yoga is?” He asks, making me feel like an outsider.
“I understand the concept, just not the point.” I retort, narrowing my eyes.
“Me either.” He says, smiling.
We walk back together as closely as I can manage. Our elbows meet briefly at one point in time, charging the air between us so that I hold my breath. He doesn’t look at me, but he knows. There’s more pointed questions, soft laughter and a single reprimand of my lazy pace. I try to remind him that it was his idea, his fault. I never claimed to be a world-renowned athlete. These things don’t seem to matter in the end to him. He tells me that he enjoys this walk just the way it is. I can’t help but agree.
We take our time returning to his truck. Emphasis on Truck not Car. As if he needs to prove that there’s something country about him. I don’t get it. He sweeps past me, trotting to catch the passenger side door so that I can slip in without exhausting myself. A regular white knight. I tell him that I want to pay him back for the popsicle but he waves me off. What good is a treat if you’re not treating someone? I can’t argue with this logic.
We drive slowly, but he takes the speed humps as fast as he can manage. He is driving a Truck after all, there’s got to be some use for it on atlanta roads. I scream in bliss. In this moment we’ve transcended our differences, forgotten our places. He’s no longer twenty-seven and a lawyer. I’m not just a pretty intern. The radio is playing a catchy tune and to my surprise he sings along. He sounds terrible, absolutely awful. I join in because I can. He mistakes a left turn for a right one and we make a full circle. He blames me for distracting him before finally pulling into my parking garage.
“See you on Monday.” He says softly, helping me down from the seat.
“See you at work.” I say, feigning a confident smile.
On the car ride home I sing along to a pop song. Then I turn the radio off and cry. I make sure to wipe away the excess eyeliner, to dry my eyes and change my clothes in a gas station bathroom. The rest of the ride is quiet. When I pull into my driveway he’s already there, the other, waiting with a smile and open arms. I slink with guilty countenance into his welcoming embrace and he kisses my hair. He tells me he missed me, so I say nothing in return.
“That was nice of your co-workers to take you out.” He says unknowingly.
“I had a good time.” I mumble.
“Aww, I wish you could stay there.” He replies, mistaking my tone.
What he doesn’t know is that I can’t stay. I shouldn’t stay. Yet, I want to stay. They are two opposing moons, these men, orbiting my celestial body without having knowledge of one another. I am a planet of deception, Apate. The pressure of his wide hand against my lower back stills my immediate worry, because in this moment I’m his again and all is right. I do still care for him, still need his affection. He fulfills the promise of something long-term, something that I can see within our futures. I know that I will break him of this though. In the end, it will be my fault.
That night we curl close together on the couch. Again we have the laughing argument where I tell him that his sofas are green, not blue. He light heartedly disagrees. He and I come to terms with the fact that we do not see things the same. We watch an array of television, not finding anything to hold our attention for long. My head is placed firmly atop his breastbone. I can hear his heart beat. Even now, with all that I know and all that he doesn’t, he is still so soundly aware of me. One of his arms is holding me to him, holding me together.
“One more week left.” He mentions absentmindedly.
“I’m ready to go.” I whisper into his shirt.
“I’ll miss having you around.” He says, hugging me tightly.
One more week to essentially ruin everything we’ve created together. To destroy years of trust and companionship. To break his heart. One more week to satisfy my curiosity and find myself only wanting him again. I begin the countdown. I have never deserved him, I know now that I never will. I am weak where he is strong. In the darkness where we hold hands and I listen to him breath softly I want to tell him. Cowardice is my new armor. He shifts, turning to face me so that his warm breath spills out across my damp cheeks. Sleepily, as if in afterthought, his fingers stroke my upper arm.
“I love you.” He whispers into the emptiness between us.
“I love you too.” I answer back.
I say it because I know that it is true. This one thing is the only truth I have for him. I love him now, I will love him forever. He squeezes my hand, knowing this without having to hear it spoken aloud. I wonder then if I can ever be what he thinks of me as. I know that when he looks at me he sees goodness, beauty. But I don’t feel that way. My chest is heavy with this secret. I find sleep hard.
The week ends. What I found inevitable comes to pass. It is saturday morning and I’m sitting in a booth at Waffle House, contemplating my breakfast and my moral compass. My jogging partner sits across from me and orders coffee. Instead of the clarity I’d hoped for, I only find that I am more confused, more unsure now than I ever was. He seems at ease with himself. He has nothing to lose, and I’m painfully aware of this.
“What happened between you two?” He asks
“I’m not sure.” I tell him.
“You’re young,” He says, “You’ll be alright.”
I consider this. I’d like to think that somewhere the blame lies with him. I grasp at straws. In the end I know that it is because I am selfish, arrogant and ignorant. I have no one to blame but myself. After we eat, I gather my dignity and car keys. He kisses me goodbye and asks if he can see me next weekend. I say yes, but inwardly I never want to see him again. For now, he’s the reason that my world is ruined. The drive home is painfully long.
When I pull into my driveway there is no one to greet me. I understand the finality of what has happened. Despite the fact that I wish I could bury this forever in my heart and never think of it again - I need guidance. My mother is magnetic north in the tumultuous storm that is my life. She knows before I do. I ask her why these things happen, what people do to pick themselves back up. She tells me that life has a funny way of working things out.
“Be honest.” She advises.
“I’m afraid.” I tell her.
“Then be brave.” She says.
A week later I tell him. He never says he hates me, even though I hate myself. I want to cry, but I can’t. I have no right to make him feel sorry for what I’ve done. He stops talking to me, refuses to answer my text messages or call me in return. I can’t blame him. I understand that he needs space, but I have never felt so alone in my life. I am left to confront my past on my own, to face this looming consequence. The only person who acknowledges my existence is the one person I no longer think about. He calls to ask if I still want to see him on the weekend - I tell him no. He never calls again.
I am left to remember the good times. I am left to remember the bad times. I weigh them both against each and find that the good outshines the bad in every way. I accept what I have done and I continue with my life, hour by hour, minute by minute until I find that I will be okay. The rhythm of my daily routine - waking up, eating meals, doing my job in the solitude of the outdoors - becomes a mantra that washes away the emptiness. I do not forget, but I refuse to dwell.
A day comes when my phone rings. I answer, expecting anyone but the voice that replies.
“I miss you.” He says.
“I miss you too.” I tell him.
“I still love you.” He tells me.
Life has a funny way of working itself out. --
-FIN-
And I wrote and shared a story about my infidelity with my boyfriend of nearly two and half years.
So, I figure if I can share that with a bunch of strangers, I can share it with you all too.
This is called, "Reality" [for lack of a better name]
--He does pull-ups while I watch. I can never take him seriously. I count, he only makes it to ten. Nine more than I could ever hope to do. There’s a secure tendril of muscle that runs along his upper shoulders, extends briefly down the narrow hint of his back. I can’t help but think, “This is wrong.” He drops to the ground, plants his feet firmly in a way that only someone who feels they’re owed the world can do. There’s nothing he’s been denied. Not even my attention.
“Ready to go?” He asks, buckling at the waist to adjust his laces.
“A few more minutes,” I say, tentatively. “I don’t want to go back to the real world.”
“This is the real world.” He reminds me.
We go for a jog (if you can call it that.) I’m not much for physical activity so I tire out pretty quickly. We talk about plenty of things - his most embarrassing drunk charade, where he’s from, what he enjoys to do. He takes the time to make a break in conversation, points out the city scape as we pass it by. He wants to know plenty about me in return, but I fib. I’m not as interesting as he is. There’s a reward for my slow pace in the end, a strawberry-flavored popsicle. He decides on banana - or was it peach? I find it hard to remember because I was more interested in the shape of his mouth, the color of his eyes. They were blue.
“You don’t know what hot-yoga is?” He asks, making me feel like an outsider.
“I understand the concept, just not the point.” I retort, narrowing my eyes.
“Me either.” He says, smiling.
We walk back together as closely as I can manage. Our elbows meet briefly at one point in time, charging the air between us so that I hold my breath. He doesn’t look at me, but he knows. There’s more pointed questions, soft laughter and a single reprimand of my lazy pace. I try to remind him that it was his idea, his fault. I never claimed to be a world-renowned athlete. These things don’t seem to matter in the end to him. He tells me that he enjoys this walk just the way it is. I can’t help but agree.
We take our time returning to his truck. Emphasis on Truck not Car. As if he needs to prove that there’s something country about him. I don’t get it. He sweeps past me, trotting to catch the passenger side door so that I can slip in without exhausting myself. A regular white knight. I tell him that I want to pay him back for the popsicle but he waves me off. What good is a treat if you’re not treating someone? I can’t argue with this logic.
We drive slowly, but he takes the speed humps as fast as he can manage. He is driving a Truck after all, there’s got to be some use for it on atlanta roads. I scream in bliss. In this moment we’ve transcended our differences, forgotten our places. He’s no longer twenty-seven and a lawyer. I’m not just a pretty intern. The radio is playing a catchy tune and to my surprise he sings along. He sounds terrible, absolutely awful. I join in because I can. He mistakes a left turn for a right one and we make a full circle. He blames me for distracting him before finally pulling into my parking garage.
“See you on Monday.” He says softly, helping me down from the seat.
“See you at work.” I say, feigning a confident smile.
On the car ride home I sing along to a pop song. Then I turn the radio off and cry. I make sure to wipe away the excess eyeliner, to dry my eyes and change my clothes in a gas station bathroom. The rest of the ride is quiet. When I pull into my driveway he’s already there, the other, waiting with a smile and open arms. I slink with guilty countenance into his welcoming embrace and he kisses my hair. He tells me he missed me, so I say nothing in return.
“That was nice of your co-workers to take you out.” He says unknowingly.
“I had a good time.” I mumble.
“Aww, I wish you could stay there.” He replies, mistaking my tone.
What he doesn’t know is that I can’t stay. I shouldn’t stay. Yet, I want to stay. They are two opposing moons, these men, orbiting my celestial body without having knowledge of one another. I am a planet of deception, Apate. The pressure of his wide hand against my lower back stills my immediate worry, because in this moment I’m his again and all is right. I do still care for him, still need his affection. He fulfills the promise of something long-term, something that I can see within our futures. I know that I will break him of this though. In the end, it will be my fault.
That night we curl close together on the couch. Again we have the laughing argument where I tell him that his sofas are green, not blue. He light heartedly disagrees. He and I come to terms with the fact that we do not see things the same. We watch an array of television, not finding anything to hold our attention for long. My head is placed firmly atop his breastbone. I can hear his heart beat. Even now, with all that I know and all that he doesn’t, he is still so soundly aware of me. One of his arms is holding me to him, holding me together.
“One more week left.” He mentions absentmindedly.
“I’m ready to go.” I whisper into his shirt.
“I’ll miss having you around.” He says, hugging me tightly.
One more week to essentially ruin everything we’ve created together. To destroy years of trust and companionship. To break his heart. One more week to satisfy my curiosity and find myself only wanting him again. I begin the countdown. I have never deserved him, I know now that I never will. I am weak where he is strong. In the darkness where we hold hands and I listen to him breath softly I want to tell him. Cowardice is my new armor. He shifts, turning to face me so that his warm breath spills out across my damp cheeks. Sleepily, as if in afterthought, his fingers stroke my upper arm.
“I love you.” He whispers into the emptiness between us.
“I love you too.” I answer back.
I say it because I know that it is true. This one thing is the only truth I have for him. I love him now, I will love him forever. He squeezes my hand, knowing this without having to hear it spoken aloud. I wonder then if I can ever be what he thinks of me as. I know that when he looks at me he sees goodness, beauty. But I don’t feel that way. My chest is heavy with this secret. I find sleep hard.
The week ends. What I found inevitable comes to pass. It is saturday morning and I’m sitting in a booth at Waffle House, contemplating my breakfast and my moral compass. My jogging partner sits across from me and orders coffee. Instead of the clarity I’d hoped for, I only find that I am more confused, more unsure now than I ever was. He seems at ease with himself. He has nothing to lose, and I’m painfully aware of this.
“What happened between you two?” He asks
“I’m not sure.” I tell him.
“You’re young,” He says, “You’ll be alright.”
I consider this. I’d like to think that somewhere the blame lies with him. I grasp at straws. In the end I know that it is because I am selfish, arrogant and ignorant. I have no one to blame but myself. After we eat, I gather my dignity and car keys. He kisses me goodbye and asks if he can see me next weekend. I say yes, but inwardly I never want to see him again. For now, he’s the reason that my world is ruined. The drive home is painfully long.
When I pull into my driveway there is no one to greet me. I understand the finality of what has happened. Despite the fact that I wish I could bury this forever in my heart and never think of it again - I need guidance. My mother is magnetic north in the tumultuous storm that is my life. She knows before I do. I ask her why these things happen, what people do to pick themselves back up. She tells me that life has a funny way of working things out.
“Be honest.” She advises.
“I’m afraid.” I tell her.
“Then be brave.” She says.
A week later I tell him. He never says he hates me, even though I hate myself. I want to cry, but I can’t. I have no right to make him feel sorry for what I’ve done. He stops talking to me, refuses to answer my text messages or call me in return. I can’t blame him. I understand that he needs space, but I have never felt so alone in my life. I am left to confront my past on my own, to face this looming consequence. The only person who acknowledges my existence is the one person I no longer think about. He calls to ask if I still want to see him on the weekend - I tell him no. He never calls again.
I am left to remember the good times. I am left to remember the bad times. I weigh them both against each and find that the good outshines the bad in every way. I accept what I have done and I continue with my life, hour by hour, minute by minute until I find that I will be okay. The rhythm of my daily routine - waking up, eating meals, doing my job in the solitude of the outdoors - becomes a mantra that washes away the emptiness. I do not forget, but I refuse to dwell.
A day comes when my phone rings. I answer, expecting anyone but the voice that replies.
“I miss you.” He says.
“I miss you too.” I tell him.
“I still love you.” He tells me.
Life has a funny way of working itself out. --
-FIN-
-Sporadic-
Apothica • Tiberios
Apothica • Tiberios
