The Black & White Confessions (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} bwconfessions) wrote,@ 2008-01-19 15:41:00 |
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Three of Diamonds
“Where were you last night?”
If he’d gotten a dime every time he’d heard that phrase in his life, he would’ve been a wealthy man. It takes on a whole new meaning in for a man in his late forties. In his youth it was expected; an unruly boy with overcautious parents was bound to break the rules sooner rather than later. After years sneaking in after midnight, his parents gave in and simply played along. It became one of those things people said to fill the space between their lack of communication and their love for one another.
His father had always drank down two raw eggs down with a few ounces of Jack. The wife had never approved, and so his raw eggs were kicked down with milk; the Jack came later in the day, around noon. He wondered if there would come a day that his wife would give in and play along as well. Would she know of his despicable deeds that he felt no shame for? Would she smile, and pretend like everything was fine for the sake of their children? Would she ask him, “Where were you last night?” simply to be polite? Would she know that whatever answer he gave would be a lie: just something to say?
“Up all night at the office – big report due this weekend.”
“Friend from out of town stopped by, we got drinks.”
“Didn’t realize how late it was. Didn’t want to wake you.”
“Car broke down, stayed at a hotel.”
Excuses. Were they as transparent as he thought they were? Or was his wife simply dumber than he could’ve hoped?
No, she was a smart woman. She was just humoring him – if not now, she would have to one day. If it weren’t for duty, they might not be together at all. Would she ever ask? Would she want to know the details? Would she want to know about the angry, passionate sex? Would she want to know how glad he was not to have to look at her face in the heat of the moment? Would she want to know that she could never, ever be good enough?
He found himself chuckling as he ran cold water and held his glass underneath it. It was strangely delightful to be such a cruel man. Perhaps one day he would not humor her at all, but rather give the pitiless, blunt truth. She would creep timidly down the stairs like she had this morning, with bags under her eyes and her robe pulled tight around her shoulders for protection. She would look up at him, her eyes desperate for consolation, the need to know, “Where were you last night?”
Unabashed, he would turn to face her and smile, his eyes dark and cold, and give her the blow. “Fucking.” Beneath him she would crumble, as if stabbed, and the life would bleed out of her eyes in fast, unstoppable tears. He had that power over her. His wife needed him, and he held her without mercy in the palm of his hand. Like a king, he could do whatever he wanted. He could crush her, and it wouldn’t matter
“Where were you last night?”
If he’d gotten a dime every time he’d heard that phrase in his life, he would’ve been a wealthy man. It takes on a whole new meaning in for a man in his late forties. In his youth it was expected; an unruly boy with overcautious parents was bound to break the rules sooner rather than later. After years sneaking in after midnight, his parents gave in and simply played along. It became one of those things people said to fill the space between their lack of communication and their love for one another.
His father had always drank down two raw eggs down with a few ounces of Jack. The wife had never approved, and so his raw eggs were kicked down with milk; the Jack came later in the day, around noon. He wondered if there would come a day that his wife would give in and play along as well. Would she know of his despicable deeds that he felt no shame for? Would she smile, and pretend like everything was fine for the sake of their children? Would she ask him, “Where were you last night?” simply to be polite? Would she know that whatever answer he gave would be a lie: just something to say?
“Up all night at the office – big report due this weekend.”
“Friend from out of town stopped by, we got drinks.”
“Didn’t realize how late it was. Didn’t want to wake you.”
“Car broke down, stayed at a hotel.”
Excuses. Were they as transparent as he thought they were? Or was his wife simply dumber than he could’ve hoped?
No, she was a smart woman. She was just humoring him – if not now, she would have to one day. If it weren’t for duty, they might not be together at all. Would she ever ask? Would she want to know the details? Would she want to know about the angry, passionate sex? Would she want to know how glad he was not to have to look at her face in the heat of the moment? Would she want to know that she could never, ever be good enough?
He found himself chuckling as he ran cold water and held his glass underneath it. It was strangely delightful to be such a cruel man. Perhaps one day he would not humor her at all, but rather give the pitiless, blunt truth. She would creep timidly down the stairs like she had this morning, with bags under her eyes and her robe pulled tight around her shoulders for protection. She would look up at him, her eyes desperate for consolation, the need to know, “Where were you last night?”
Unabashed, he would turn to face her and smile, his eyes dark and cold, and give her the blow. “Fucking.” Beneath him she would crumble, as if stabbed, and the life would bleed out of her eyes in fast, unstoppable tears. He had that power over her. His wife needed him, and he held her without mercy in the palm of his hand. Like a king, he could do whatever he wanted. He could crush her, and it wouldn’t matter
