Chapter 65
By June, things with Korgy have settled back into a groove.
A groove I know well. The same groove as before.
Rushed visits on my lunch break at work or while Gwen’s on a playdate with Gregory, or picking him up from daycare, or getting brunch with a friend.
Ducking down at stoplights. Hurried text exchanges that end abruptly and with no notice whenever he’s summoned back to his regular life.
I don’t order whatever I’d like, but I do order the second most expensive thing on the menu, usually a white fish.
The first, usually a prime rib, would be too obvious.
That I’m resentful and trying to take it out on him by forcing him to drain his teacher-salary pockets on a piece of protein I’ll shit out by morning.
But the second most expensive item, that’s discreet.
“You okay?” he’ll ask, reaching across the table to caress the top of my hand.
“I’m fine,” I’ll say, in a tone so fake-polite-pick-me-girl that I want to rip my throat out of my body.
And yet I can’t help myself. Because last time I broke, last time I cried and complained and made a fuss, I lost him.
I will not let that happen again. So I shove my concerns down.
And my disappointments. And my grievances.
And everything that isn’t my perky tits or my warm, wet vagina.
Those are his. But everything else, everything that’s unappealing to him, that’s too needy and too emotional and too sensitive and too much, everything that might lead to another breakup, I keep to myself and I scream it into a pillow later.
I never ask him to stay even a minute longer than he says he can.
I let him take phone calls from Gwen without saying a word, sometimes I even remind him to call her.
“It’s been a while, you oughta give her a ring.
” I hold him when he’s tired, I there, there him when he’s sad, I reassure him his limited time slots with me are more than enough, that we’ll make it work, together, as a team!
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he’ll ask. Bait that I know better than to take.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I’ll say.
And then the entrees will come and so will Mr. Korgy’s second glass of wine and my second glass of Coke and I’ll eat my food and drink my drink and laugh the same as I would if I didn’t have this palpable tension growing in me.
It’s almost funny, how no matter how much you’re starting to hate someone, you can sit across from them and laugh while you have a nice dinner.
We have sex in the car—the driver’s seat lowered as far back as it goes.
Usually I’m on top. I’ve gotten used to the feeling of Cheerio grinds digging into my kneecaps with each thrust. I dust them off with my hands after we’re done but the grinds leave little dents in my knees that last until Mr. Korgy drops me off back at home.
And then, by the time he’s gone, so are they.
The intercourse itself has started to take on a blacker hue, for me at least, force underscoring each suck and hump and lick and swallow. That’s alright, I tell my body as the angry beads of sweat drip down my back, my forehead, my shoulders—anger is the truest form of passion.
“You’re so sexy,” he’ll say, sticking his finger in my mouth. I have to convince myself not to bite it off, but I do. I convince myself every time.
“Yeah?” I’ll whine in hot-porn-girl voice, wanting to spit in his face so instead letting him cum on mine.
I bite my tears down as I beg him to fuck me harder and harder and harder, secretly hoping that if he fucks me hard enough, he’ll fuck the resentment right out of me. He never does.