u/Apples2_apples

Women were never supposed to happen to me. That possibility was buried long ago when promised my life to a man at just 18.

By the time I had kissed a woman, I already knew how men worked. Their insecurities hidden beneath bravado, the words that kept their interests piqued, and the snares required to lure them into vulnerability. They were all the same.

I thought experience had made me difficult to surprise.

But what I didn’t know was that she was different.

I stood in the doorway after she invited me inside. Long black hair, pinned neatly beneath a hijab hours earlier, now cascaded down her back. Her olive skin glowed beneath the soft string lights hung in the corners of the room, their warm light reflected in her brown eyes.

She was beautiful, and for the first time in years I was nervous.

My expertise was no match for her, as she took my hand leading me into an experience that exceeded every expectation I had built from fantasy.

Every move she made I followed like a reflection in the mirror. The confidence I often wore like a badge of honor dissolved beneath her patience for my ignorance.

Unlike anyone I had met before, who took pieces of my heart to satisfy their own hunger, she poured herself into me overflowing my cup.

As we settled into her couch after our dance fizzled out, she gave me a look I knew all too well. It was the same prying expression I used to pull secrets from the depths no one was supposed to see. Except for the first time I was on the other end.

“You miss him don’t you?” A familiar ache stirred in my chest. I couldn’t lie to her, I’d vowed off that practice long ago.

I couldn’t help but wonder how she could see right through the wall I had built. Though it was inevitable I’d meet someone better at this game than I was, I didn’t expect it to be so soon.

“I do. How did you know?” I said, shocked that someone actually cared about the person living underneath my skin.

She cupped my cheeks inside of her soft hands, “You’re heart isn’t in this. You don’t belong here.”

Her thumb brushed across my lips, “Go home.”

Suddenly the war I had been wagering inside myself for months had fell silent.

I admired her beauty one last time, wondering if she understood the magnitude of what she had done.

All of this time I didn’t need the money, attention, someone to listen, or yet another lost soul passing through.

I was wrong.

All I needed was another woman to take my place.

My STB Ex husband (26M) came home from a work trip initiating a divorce from me (25F) on March 6th. Of course I cried and begged for him to stay, I had been with him since I was 18 yrs old. When I finally realized he didn’t want to work things out, I found a new apartment that week and left with our son (1M). Which oddly enough is when he started to tell me he was regretting his decision.

Come to find out he had been having an emotional affair since December, and then started sleeping with her after he ended things with me. He had been telling her about the arguments we had, and of course she would tell him to end things with me.

Anyways, while he was gone (and I lived in my own house) I started seeing someone casually who was kind of going through the same thing I was. During this time (when my STB ex wasn’t around his affair partner) he would call me late at night crying about how much he missed me and our son. Then he would ask if I was seeing any one, and would tell me if I was he would kill himself. So of course I lied to him, because A.) We weren’t together he didn’t need to know, and B.) He was states away talking about killing himself.

He came home, and I guess things ended between them. We had a phone conversation, and after him pestering me 20 times, I finally told him that yes I did sleep with someone else after he left. We weren’t together, and hadn’t been together in over a month. Oh man, he flipped out. That entire weekend was one big episode of him calling/texting me about trying to kill himself. (Mind you me and this other person stopped seeing each other after 2 weeks)

It got to a point where he walked to a lake by my house, without a car have no clue how he did that, considering he lives 15 mins away from me. After calling me to pick him up, he would not leave my car, and kept going on and on about killing himself. Finally I had enough.

I was going to be late to my second job that I had to get, because he refused to help with his son. (This man makes over 6 figures btw.) I told his family, and he was pissed I got them involved. My thinking was he’d either get the help he needed, or learn his lesson not to pull a stunt like that again.

Anyways, he wants to work things out now. Any conversation we’ve had about it, he tries to excuse himself for what he did. Not only that, but he tries to say that what I did after we broke up was equally as bad. Which I’m not willing to believe at all. (Don’t even want to get into the crash out he had when he somehow found the guy I slept with on insta.)

Last night we had a conversation where he asked if I was seeing anyone before the marriage ended. I said, “No I’m not like that. I’ve never been like that, I don’t have it in me. But you do.”

That’s when he said something that gave me a huge realization. He goes, “Does one mistake I made define who I am forever?” And it came to me that yes it does. When it comes to cheating it absolutely does, and I don’t know if I’d ever be able to forgive him for this. It’d always be in the back of my mind.

I don’t know if I’m ranting or looking for advice, but I just feel like he’s unsuccessfully trying to manipulate me into taking him back. Thoughts?

His eyes were as blue as the Caribbean Sea, piercing through the darkness as they searched for mine. I complimented them, noticing the intricate crypts in his irises illuminated by the glow of the T.V.

“Thanks, my mom had the same ones.” He smiled, freckles spread across his nose.

Everything was about his mother.

My fingers intertwined with the chain wrapped around his neck. At the end, an oddly shaped chunk of turquoise lay nestled between two pieces of silver.

“That was my mom’s necklace y’know. It used to be bigger, but we split it in half. One for me, and one for my sister.”

I said nothing in return, instead pressing a soft kiss to his bare chest. He took my hand, and held it in his.

“Tomorrow is the anniversary of her death.”

He turned his head towards me, outwardly displaying an invitation for me to inquire about her. I could no longer avoid the question, and knowingly took the bait to humor him.

“Can I ask what happened to her?”

A sigh of relief escaped him as if he had been waiting for me to ask this entire time. Oddly I knew he had, but I wanted to exist as a stranger to him for a little while longer.

He delved into the story, and despite myself, I listened intently. With each detail, he became less of a stranger and more of a man I would remember. One that I knew I would have to leave behind soon, as he would be stationed down south in mere months.

When he finished I was facing him, a singular tear ran down his face. I wiped it away with my thumb, before kissing his lips, and whispering comforting words into his ear.

“There’s something about you. I wish you would wait for me here until I get back.”

I shrugged my shoulder in a playful manner, hoping to brush off his fears.

But deep down I knew I couldn’t wait for a man, whose heart was still buried with his mother.

The overwhelming scent of Arabian perfume filled the room, causing my stomach to turn. Oud and saffron clung to his curls, hanging in the air so thickly I found myself desperately searching for a breath of fresh air.

I helplessly scanned the room waiting for this to be over. Saudi movie posters, and American records hung from command strips, littering the walls of his studio Apartment.

25 looks different on everyone.

Finally, when he had his fill, he got up to take a shower without saying a word. No offer of a towel, if he enjoyed himself, or even a mention of my state of being. Instead I was left alone in my own thoughts, to the soft music of Michael Jackson playing from the TV.

His absent mindedness brought me back to my younger years. Though I didn’t have many, I belonged to someone else at just 18.

When he returned, sitting across from me in a beat up recliner, he spoke of his life in Saudi Arabia and plans to graduate from pilot school in a month. It reminded me of the conversations I had as a high school senior ready to conquer the world. He hadn’t stuck his feet in, yet I was drowning for years.

He stopped for a moment, asking me what my goals were from here on out. Truthfully I couldn’t answer, I had never lived my adult life for myself, and I likely never will. I spent 6 years supporting the dreams of another, only to wake up and realize they were never mine.

I gave him a smile, “I’m not sure I’m only 25!” Though “only” felt dishonest, and far too small compared to the lifetime I’d already built. The naive glimmer in his eyes couldn’t see through me, as he accepted my answer at face value.

The more the night went on, the more I felt like a grown woman in a boy’s room.

With my face buried in his pillow for a second time, I wondered how many women had been exactly where I was. Then I remembered how many men had been behind me.

As I stood in his doorway ready to leave, I turned back to glance at him for a final time. I saw a boy ready to begin, staring back a woman coping with her end.

A Rolex worth more than my home wraps around the wrist draped over my chest. I watch it tick by aware of each second passing, as I stare at the marble dresser reflecting us together.

I listened to his breathing, relieved that he finally drifted off to sleep. Knowing that the moment he opened his eyes I wouldn’t know peace.

There wasn’t a moment he didn’t fill with endless one sided conversation, either bragging about his accomplishments, putting others down, or spilling out the lust he called love for me.

Yet he didn’t even know my middle name, because in this game it was never my turn to speak.

7 years created a distance between us, and he never missed an opportunity to reiterate his jealousy. Fine lines, thinner hair, and less libido were already circling him. 32 was approaching quickly, and although he always wore a pompous smile, it was eating him alive.

As he ran his fingers through my long curls, I winced when his large ring grazed my back. Small bruises, and bite marks littered my body in different stages of healing. He was too rough, like an animal trying to consume my youth, yet I kept returning to his trap.

Similar to a trophy, or an ornament, it was made clear I was to be completely his. His eyes lit up with greed every time he stared into mine, his hands finding me whenever I entered his large manor.

“I love you.” He whispered, exhausted and high out of his mind for the 3rd time that day. I turned towards him, pulling the sheet over my chest and resting my hand on his cheek, “Only for the moment.”

It fell on deaf ears, because he couldn’t fathom anyone else’s voice being of importance. Instead he muttered out, “My birthday is in August, that’s only 3 months away. So crazy how fast time goes.”

I watched him mourn his most prized possession slowly slipping through his fingers. I smirked, fully aware that this would be the one thing he would pay attention to, “Are you afraid of getting older?”

For a moment it seemed as if the world stood still, as for the first time something finally had him at a loss for words. However, only a mere 6 seconds passed by before he sighed, “…I am.”

I could see a familiar reality wash over his expression. He had the big house, the fancy cars, the designer clothes, and the extravagant vacations. He had it all.

But, just like purchasing love is impossible, so is buying time.

8 years. 8 long years she wasted, behaving as if she truly belonged to him, longing for the day he would stand at the end of the aisle.

Yet the thought never crossed his mind.

Now we lay together, listening to the waves of Lake Erie lapping the shore through his open window.

My eyes trace the bland white bedroom walls where paintings and posters once hung, as the imprint of her in their bed swallows me whole.

He speaks of her decision to finally end her imprisonment in limbo, as if he didn’t rob her of youth, while stroking my long hair resting on the pillow where her’s should be.

When it comes to life, I have always preferred the odds to certainty.

The bright red cherries, and dice tattooed on my ankle catches his wondering dark brown eyes. He asks their meaning while tracing the outline with his lips, carefully brushing over the lucky number 11.

A small laugh escapes me as I tell him there’s no drawn out story behind them, and his mouth furrows into a frown, telling me he could never put something on his body without a purpose.

That’s when I realized how different we were. He was a man so afraid of losing, he’d never place a wager. I was a woman willing to put everything on the line.

My lace blouse allows the shoreline wind to send a shiver down my spine as the night comes to an end. He hands me a pristine Yosemite sweatshirt, making me vow to return it, although I’m unsure if I’ll ever see him again.

His arms wrapped around my shoulders, and a whisper passed by my ear, “I wish I would’ve met you sooner, I think I could’ve married you.”

But you’ve only known me for 8 days, and her for 8 years.

Green. Dark hunter green. The color of the walls that engulf me, as I watch the sun set dissolve into stars, from a bedroom window that doesn’t belong to me.

I’m not supposed to be here, yet I feel as though nothing exists beyond this room, and everything is as it should be. Even if it’s only for a few hours.

He calls himself an honest sinner. As though confession washes blood from the hands. A reformed therapized man, but blind to his own hypocrisy.

I lay my head on his chest, listening as he drones on and on about the woman he once loved. Practically spitting on her name with every sentence. Waiting patiently for my turn to do the same, as I trace the imprint of a wedding band on my left hand.

It’s strange how our lives ran so parallel, down to the timing of our endings, yet we were so far apart. In another life I would call it fate, if I believed in such a thing anymore.

We lie together, in his bed, as the summer wind brushes our skin. His face buried in my breast, as I gently stroke his back. Our connection is strong, but only for tonight, and the many more that are to come.

When day breaks, we pretend to not know the other’s name. Because I am not her, and he is not him.

The look of desire is sickening, as it burrows a pit deep into your stomach. It’s a shift in their eyes from sweet nothings used to lure you into a snare, to hunger like a predator who has captured its prey.

Greed radiates from their touch, as they cover every inch of your being, nothing belongs to you anymore. At least as long as you’re in their grasp.

Ceilings are always white. No exceptions. You get a nice view of them on your back, staring over their shoulder, as the bear consumes you bit by bit. Surprisingly, you can tell a lot about a person just by looking at their ceiling. The wealthier they are, the more plain and polished it is, almost like a mirror reflecting the color of the walls and dancing shadows beneath.

As you descend the social ladder, the more plaster patterns emerge, along with dust collections in crevices from age.

Although your body is present, served on a platter in the belly of the beast, you are anything but. The mind tends to fade to a time when you were under a man whose heart poured into yours, overflowing with love and acceptance. Now you lay here, like a junkie chasing a high they’ll never have again, trying to fill the frigid void in your chest.

The moments of euphoria in your memories are fleeting, ripped away by glances into your eyes from the lion above you. Words of admiration flow from its mouth, but none of them hold any merit, as they land on the surface of your skin.

Still a slight smile spreads across your lips, whispering filth to keep its interest piqued. This act comes naturally, flawlessly spinning a web of feigned fascination, so that you can return to where you belong.

All too soon the transactional ritual is over. The beast no longer starves, as it has overstuffed its stomach with lust. Yet with its head on your chest, in a cold bed you may never see again, the all too familiar realization sweeps over your heart.

To be desired is not to be loved.

Although tears stream down your face leaving the dragon’s den, you know you’ll be back again. Maybe in a different place, maybe with a different beast, searching for him.

The look of desire is sickening, as it burrows a pit deep into your stomach. It’s a shift in their eyes from sweet nothings used to lure you into a snare, to hunger like a predator who has captured its prey.

Greed radiates from their touch, as they cover every inch of your being, nothing belongs to you anymore. At least as long as you’re in their grasp.

Ceilings are always white. No exceptions. You get a nice view of them on your back, staring over their shoulder, as the bear consumes you bit by bit. Surprisingly, you can tell a lot about a person just by looking at their ceiling. The wealthier they are, the more plain and polished it is, almost like a mirror reflecting the color of the walls and dancing shadows beneath.

As you descend the social ladder, the more plaster patterns emerge, along with dust collections in crevices from age.

Although your body is present, served on a platter in the belly of the beast, you are anything but. The mind tends to fade to a time when you were under a man whose heart poured into yours, overflowing with love and acceptance. Now you lay here, like a junkie chasing a high they’ll never have again, trying to fill the frigid void in your chest.

The moments of euphoria in your memories are fleeting, ripped away by glances into your eyes from the lion above you. Words of admiration flow from its mouth, but none of them hold any merit, as they land on the surface of your skin.

Still a slight smile spreads across your lips, whispering filth to keep its interest piqued. This act comes naturally, flawlessly spinning a web of feigned fascination, so that you can return to where you belong.

All too soon the transactional ritual is over. The beast no longer starves, as it has overstuffed its stomach with lust. Yet with its head on your chest, in a cold bed you may never see again, the all too familiar realization sweeps over your heart.

To be desired is not to be loved.

Although tears stream down your face leaving the dragon’s den, you know you’ll be back again. Maybe in a different place, maybe with a different beast, searching for him.