He thinks I don’t know, but I do.
He stands in front of me, one hand shoved deep into the pocket of his jeans, a cocky grin placed on his supposedly, ‘angelic’ face, the faint scent of perfume lingering from his clothes.
Perfume that isn’t mine.
I try to wonder where it all went wrong; when I started noticing that his nights in the studio were getting later and later, or when his cell phone became his personal gadget that I was not allowed to touch, let alone answer. To be honest, I can’t place a date, or a time. It’s beginning to feel like the faint whisper of, ‘He’s cheating on you’, has always been muttered in my ear, but only recently have I chosen to hear it.
It would be easier if I didn’t love him. I always said I would never be one of those stupid women who was swayed by those pathetic, easily said three words. Yet, when he utters them so softly to me, late at night when we’re alone, there’s nothing I can do but believe them. I wonder whether he says them to her. He probably does, and I know from experience that when he says those words to you, there’s nothing you can do except say them back.
It’s the strangest feeling--loving someone, and yet hating them at the same time. Wishing they were only yours, and yet wishing you would never see them again. I hate what he’s done to me. I hate that I stay up late at night when he’s, ‘working’, hugging my pillow as images of them as one burn themselves into my mind. I hate that I believe all the clichés he’s thrown at me to excuse his absence. But most of all, I hate how I can’t leave him.
Of course, he doesn’t know this. I thinks I’m clueless to his secret trysts. He obviously thinks I’m stupid, and I know I am. If I wasn’t, I would have left months ago, when my suspicion was primarily aroused. But I can’t. He’s the magnet, drawing me closer to him every time I try to get away.
Maybe, one day, I’ll get the courage to walk out. Maybe, one day, he’ll realize he can’t have his cake and eat it too. Maybe, one day, I’ll stop being a pawn in the little game he plays on the world.
He slowly walks up to me, the moonlight casting a glow over his smirking face, and I immediately know he was with her. “Hey, baby,” he says, sauntering over to our bed, removing articles of clothing as he does so.
I sigh as I feel his soft lips press against my jaw, and then my neck, and then my collar bone. His body presses up against mine, radiating heat against my cold skin as his arms go around me, a feeling of comfort rushing through my body.
And I know the 'maybes' will never amount to anything.
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