She had often wondered if he was happier with his mistress than he was with her. Now she realizes that it is both arrogant and naïve of her to wonder about such things because her questions expose her assumption that he did love her at some point in time. She thinks that there was a time when he thought she was pretty, that what her eyes saw in the mirror of her bathroom under the fluorescent lighting was attractive to him. But she is a fool to believe she might still attract him; she is illumined by artificial light while his red mistress is lit by the sun.
Negative and hurtful thoughts flood her mind, exorcised only by tears that burn the raw skin covering her orbicularis oculi, the muscle that helps her hide from the eyes that look back at her. It is fatigued and sore from crying, having been opened and shut so often in so short a time.
There is no way that I could have been anything to him because he loved her while hate for me was still on the tip of his limp dick. I didn’t smell good enough, and my youth, my few years below his, meant nothing; rather, he wanted a younger, sexier lover which he found in her, the whore in the red dress, the sexy whore who has 100% of the desirability of which I may only claim 50% ownership. I simply was not enough for him.
She recalls plans, all her grand ideas to win back her lover’s heart.
I had planned to prepare him a meal and do what a woman can do to convince a man that he is best cared for in her arms, his flesh and desire nurtured by the softness of my breasts and the warming and undulating river between my thighs. I had planned to have him eat from my hands and drink from my mouth, but plans are for those who don’t believe in fate.
I now believe in fate. It is my fate to be alone, husbandless except on paper. He kept me for those nights when she could not be touched, but there was no love between us. I was only the substitute and not the real thing when the real object of his desire was too busy.
He did not believe in fate. He had plans of giving my children to her, allowing her to take them on fun trips so that when I was finally tossed aside, they would already have affection for their new mother. She had been spending time with them, lying to them that their time together was none of my concern.
She is a husband-stealing bitch, and he is a wife-breaking bastard. They deserve each other, for surely, rejection and unfaithfulness hide somewhere in their future.
I hate myself, and every part of me that was ever laid beside him. My skin crawls, and I have bathed over and over again to the point of rawness to remove the infection and irritation that his loving gave me.
My hair, once long and deep black, is cut short like a businesswoman’s—only I have no business and nothing of my own—and I’ve colored it red, the color of my hate for her and a testament to my insecurity. It should be a bold color that announces my confidence and sexiness, but no; it is the mark of my failed love, like blood from my broken heart.
His meal is cold now after sitting some three hours on the table. The smell of sake and fish, a putrid blend, fills the toilet, and all she can do for her nausea is cry more tears in the hope that the salt will settle her stomach.
I want to be loved, like any woman or man, but I am too ugly, too unsatisfactory to him. Half Japanese, half Filipina, but wholly wretched and rejected.
I hate him, I hate her, and I hate me. I wasn’t good enough. I didn’t cook well enough, and my house was never truly clean enough.
She blames herself, adding to his emotional and physical rejection words more deliberate and damaging than any from his lips.
I was fallible where he needed me perfect, even in lovemaking. There are things that I should have done. I should have moved a certain way beneath him, crying out instead of praying for pleasure in silence. He wanted me to claw his back and scream that he was too much, more than I could handle. I should have lied, acted out orgasms, and moaned as if I had not already learned to please myself.
She postulates that maybe it was in the bedroom where she fell short, that maybe he had somehow felt betrayed by her selfishness.
He must have known that I knew my body in private, how it needed to be touched and filled. He could smell my cum on my hands and see the crusted sweat on my forehead. Surely that is where I failed him. It must have hurt him to know that I could please myself better than he could, and it must have made him feel insecure about what he could not do for me.
He turned to her because she was desperate for his love, no matter how shallow it was, but I was too demanding. I should have been happy with the love he offered and showed restraint for my desires and the love I wanted.
But no! I was satisfied, in the beginning, so how can I be blamed? I loved him and honored him, even later on in the face of his first rejection. I was a good wife, a mother, and a housekeeper. I took care of everything in the house so that he would not have to be concerned about trivial things, like children, cleaning the house, and waiting for meals.
Her thoughts stop abruptly, and defiantly she punches the floor where she sits. Her tiny fists redden, and she massages them, a physical act meant to treat an emotional pain.
I fulfilled my duties. I played his wife well, but she must be better. I wonder if she cooks for him or if he must spend his hard-earned money to fill her wrinkled and stretch-marked stomach. I want to know if she cleans and if she shops frugally. I want to know because I was what a man says a woman should be, and if she is so much better, what does she do that I do not?
I want to know why he hates me and loves her. I want to be loved and respected. I want to be wanted and needed. I want him.
I want him, but I hate him. I hate him for loving her. I hate him because I can’t hate myself for longing for the weak and useless love he vomits on me. I despise the loving he gives me, the slimy, vomit-loving he gives.
But I want him. I want him to love me.