Regret is a Stupid Word
She doesn’t think that I can see her, right now. She thinks I am out getting food or paint. I don’t remember the fucking excuse. It’s hard to remember anything while you watch the person you are destined to be with be with someone else. Especially when they don’t think that they are on display. To watch her tell him secrets that only her and I should share.
This really is all my fault. I haven’t been the perfect husband by any means. I cheated several months ago; we worked it out but there has been a rather large elephant in the room ever since. I am not the most beautiful looking person in the world. I look like garbage compared to Ted. Ted being my coworker and best friend for the last five years. On Tuesday nights, he doubles as the guy plowing the love of my life. Why did I cheat? Oh the millions of excuses I could come up with. Not worth me clearing up seeing as no matter how I put it, Karma is still gettin’ my ass back. Would I take it back knowing how all this would end? Of course. Wouldn’t you take back an action if you knew you would end up broken?
Back to Ted and my wife going at it. What else should I do? I guess I should just go to the living room and start collecting my DVD’s, CD’s and nice stuff and drive away. Should I leave her the car? A part of me just thanks God that there are no kids in the picture. Maybe I should just wait in the kitchen, having a coffee and reading the paper. They would walk through and I would just wave at Ted, ask him how his report is going, and watch him sheepishly walk out the door. Then the wife would sit there and go on and on about how if I was a better husband that she wouldn’t be talked into all of this. Then I would scream back and it would escalate to a point of shear stupidity.
Might as well just accept it and move on with life. I still love her and if she still loves me, then we can work around this. We can do this. We have to.
-March 11, 2008
I found this in the annals of stuff I have written in the past. I like it, though I can see several different mistakes I made. I have decided not to fix it because it acts as a kind of marker for where I came from. Ironically, in reading it over I almost feel that it is one of the better things (narratively) that I ever wrote.
Quite mature for a 20 year old…
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