I spy, with my little eye – YOU. I watched her today, I watched her come out of her house and climb into her car, and I felt sick. She strutted to it, like she didn’t just own that car, she owned the whole street. No – more than that. She owned the whole town, with me stuck right there in the middle. No escape.
When she drove off I nearly followed her, but even though she wouldn’t have known, I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. I had that feeling, that feeling where I fucking wanna tear off my skin, and I nearly went into my purse, but I didn’t. I went for my make-up bag instead, put on bright red lips and blew myself a kiss in the mirror, even though I was bawling. She makes me feel like shit, and I can’t even admit it. Not even to Lysette, even though she knows all my deepest, darkest . . .
Does anyone ever really know our deepest, darkest, though? Because if they did, how could we know they’d still like us, let alone love us? And if they didn’t love us, and WE didn’t love us, how could we even carry on?
When I smooched it on Max at pick-up he rubbed his little cheek like he hated it, but I knew he loved it from the way he giggled. I snuggled him harder, and none of it mattered. NONE OF IT. It was just me and him against the world. She can’t take that away from me.
Someone else loved it too. I knew he would – I see the way he looks at me. He says I’m paranoid, that I see things that aren’t there, but it’s not that. I’ve always had a bit of a sixth sense – I know things I shouldn’t know. In my worst moments, I end up thinking it’s a little bit dangerous.
You can get it back in an instant. Right there and then, I loved being in my skin again. I was younger, sexier. I was a MILF, a minx. The feeling didn’t last all that long. That’s probably why I texted him later. Something harmless, a little bit funny. He texted straight back – I knew he would, didn’t need a sixth sense for that.
When I was lying in bed listening to him breathing – no, it was snoring – I wondered if what I’d done was really all that harmless. I counted each of his exhales – it sounds fucking stupid, but I was treasuring them. All the things that seem like harmless fun never end up being all that harmless, do they? I’m too stupid to remember that fact when it matters. When I’m doing it. Now I’m here in the bathroom writing it down, it’s too late. It’s way too late.