We were in my car, breaking up for the 47th time. Although this time was different. Paul had been with someone else during our previous…hiatus. She was 19 or 20, some obnoxious age like that. It was the first time he had slept with anyone other than me since the 6 years we had been together, off and on. I had been with more than one person, of course. Even when we were an official couple, I wasn’t faithful. But it’s different for me. I needed sex all the time. I needed affection. If I didn’t have a man doting after me at all times, I felt like I didn’t exist. See, I’m weak. But Paul, he was different. He was strong. He was capable of loving. I wasn’t. He wasn’t suppose to fuck anything up. That was going to be me.
But now he was contaminated with a 19 year old pussy. Paul was 32 years old and should not have been with a 19 year old from his acting class. There should be rules about that. In fact, learning how to not fuck a 19 year old when you’re in your 30s is probably more important to master than understanding how to act out a scene from Streetcar Named Desire, a play in which he would likely never get cast in. He had joined that acting class to spend more time with me. Then I left. Why did I have to leave? I wasn’t there eyeing him like a hawk. It was my fault. I should have never left. I should have never looked away.
I placed my head in his lap and cried as he scratched my scalp, soothing me like my grandmother would.