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The Affair It's glowing rectangular surface beckons even if I cannot see it.
The firm mouse sits there, waiting for my hand to control it and direct it to the box where I will pour out my most intimate thoughts unencumbered by sight, by name or any other thing which would limit me. I lay here feeling my husband breathe on my neck, his hand on my hip, twitching every now in then letting me know for certain he's really asleep. I should be warm and cozy, fully content, and, having spend the time before he slept in the heat of his embrace and the warm tenderness of his love, completely adored. The fact that I am so compelled to remove myself from his side makes me feel dirty and cheap. I feel ugly at the memories of the number of times I have slipped away, slunk away to answer the call... How many times? I don't want to think about that. The ugliness only mocks me. It reminds me that I am weak, that I will answer the call... That laying here only prolongs my agony and makes my loss an even bigger win.
Am I some sort of an addict?
I lay there and try to focus on the rhythm of his breathing, hoping it will hypnotize me into sleep where I can forget about all these ideas in my mind.
Come to me. Come to me.
He'll be angry, he feels somewhat threatened by our connection as it is and to sneak off in the middle of the night? Who wouldn't worry. Who does this to such a man? I try to tell myself I am not doing anything wrong. I mean him no harm. But still, I know it hurts him. Shouldn't that knowledge be enough to keep me from hurting the man I really do love? Like some cheap floozy with no sense I am so easily lured into jeopardizing our relationship. And for what? I ask myself this even as I slither to the end of the bed, slide a tee-shirt on over my head, and silently prowl for the door. I quietly navigate the black stairway, the long dark hall to the sleeping monitor. It's amazing how I can see in the dark and maneuver as if led by some unseen hand... I should be this good; I've done it countless times before.
I sigh as I realize it will be countless times yet again.
I can't help myself. I am compelled. Driven.
I was this way before him. It's who I am.
I grip the mouse firmly and the monitor springs awake with light. The only light. And I begin where we left off last time.
Ahhh... Yes.
To write in solitude in the wee hours is 20 times better than reading in bed by flashlight. I only hope that my editor will find it as good to read.
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