While I was out this afternoon going for a therapeutic run in the rain, burning calories (burn burn burn bitch burn) 'til I could burn no more, Luke came home from work and took it upon himself to clean our bedroom.
Last night, I chewed my dinner and spat it out into tissue after tissue I pulled from one pocket clean and stuffed into the other soiled. Missing any opportunity to dispose of my half-chewed mess, it stayed pocketed until we fell into bed together. Lights out, my pants were dropped on the floor and forgotten about. Kissing, licking, sucking, groping and fucking between us, once before sleep, twice before rising. Today came and went like any other day.
Our bedroom floor is always covered with clothing, clean and dirty, laundry baskets turned upside down, boots and belts wherever they land as we undress every day. We're a messy couple. It doesn't bother either one of us unless we're expecting visitors. Occasionally, when we run low on clean clothing, we pull random shit off the floor and chuck it in the washer. Today was that day, and as Luke picked my pants off the floor, chewed up bits of chicken fell across our bed. He turned both pockets inside out and emptied the entire contents of all I had 'eaten' during last night's meal onto the blanket. Then he went for a long drive.
When I returned from my run I didn't think to look in the bedroom. It wasn't until hours later when I figured I'd take a nap until I saw it. I just cried, feeling so dirty and ashamed and embarrassed and sorry.
Later he asked me why I still bother to lie to him. I told him I do it to protect him. That made him angry. He asked me to admit myself into hospital. I said I'd rather die. He said, "obviously." Then he asked me to kindly start saving for my own funeral, and left.
Not sure if he'll come home tonight. But I don't care. I got some guy's number the other day. I'm going to ring him up and invite him 'round. |
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