Phantom

August 14, 1944

Shame is what I’m supposed to feel. I feel none of that.

Maybe except for allowing my husband to go years without making me feel what Ronaldo did today. My God, I didn’t know the human body was capable of feeling something so glorious.

And I am a little miffed that it took thirty-five years for me to feel it just once. Especially because John has experienced it all this time. The bastard.

But how will I ever stop now?

After dinner, Sera went off to do her schoolwork and John sat in the living room, drinking a beer and listening to the radio. So I sneaked off to the bedroom and touched myself for the first time. I wanted to experience that feeling again, and I couldn’t contain myself.

It wasn’t as intense as when Ronaldo touched me, but the euphoria was still very much present. Admittedly, it took me a few minutes to figure out what I liked. My mind slipped away, and all I could think about was my phantom. The raw hunger on his face as he touched me today, the filthy words that spilled from his mouth. My fingers took over after that and moved on instinct.

It was incredible. And oddly enough, all I want to do is tell Ronaldo about it. See the flames in his gaze as I recant every moment of what I did to myself. Already I want to do it again, but worse yet, I want Ronaldo to do it again.

I fear he has created an insatiable monster, and now he must live with the consequences.

A mad woman, he has made me.

But if this is madness, I don’t ever want to be sane.