It had been so long since they were together, longer than they were married, longer than they were even a couple, and as long as she could remember. He couldn't remember, after all those years of togetherness, he had no memory of her, no deja vu when he smelled the lillies at the window sill that was her signature scent for all those years. He didn't remember anything about her. It was as if she never existed, as if those memories; some bittersweet, but most of them just so incredibly sweet, were just never made. But it didn't matter, his not remembering, not anymore anyway. What matters anyway?
She died last night. And he didn't even feel the loss. How can you feel the loss of something you don't know and something you have never had? That's comforting I guess, his not being able to feel the loss. If he could, it would probably be too much for him to endure. Especially after all he'd been through already. I'm his second wife, but his first wife in his mind, and to the world too, I am the only woman he's ever loved.
I won't lie, some days I take solace in the thought that he doesn't remember her. If he could, surprise surprise, he would never forget her. All those nights where he would make love to me so freely, so, completely, and so, purely, he would have surely thought of her, of her eyes, the deep pools of sadness in those very reflective dark eyes. He would have thought of her skin, the way different lights would make it look more beautiful, more transcendental.
No doubt she was a beautiful woman. It's another matter that her beauty was not blatant; it had the understated subtlety that was surely lacking in my own beauty. I used my blaringly conventional beauty to my full advantage, the way I was taught to; the only way I learned best to. But she, she was just something else. She was, as a matter of fact, everything I was not. Everything I would never be, and everything that he ever needed.
But he doesn't know what he needs. Apart from using my blaring conventional beauty, I also know how to use my hideously twisted mind, to my full advantage, surprise surprise. He needs what I make him believe he needs. He needs me. But he doesn't. Anything but me. I'll be the death of him. And then slowly die myself. But I died already, last night, because I am her. I am his first wife, I am everything he needed.
And now I'm gone. A shadow, a lie, a big black facade he never even thought of. Not once, it's all one big scary lie. He blinked now. And now I watch from this world of darkness, as he walks up the stairs, a cup of tea in his hand, having no memory of any of this, no wives, first or second, just a lovely movie he's got on pause he has to get back to. 27 minutes for it to end, and then he'll head to sleep where I can haunt him again in dreams he'll never even remember, because they'll never happen really. Nothing does. Nothing ever happens. Surprise surprise.
She died last night. And he didn't even feel the loss. How can you feel the loss of something you don't know and something you have never had? That's comforting I guess, his not being able to feel the loss. If he could, it would probably be too much for him to endure. Especially after all he'd been through already. I'm his second wife, but his first wife in his mind, and to the world too, I am the only woman he's ever loved.
I won't lie, some days I take solace in the thought that he doesn't remember her. If he could, surprise surprise, he would never forget her. All those nights where he would make love to me so freely, so, completely, and so, purely, he would have surely thought of her, of her eyes, the deep pools of sadness in those very reflective dark eyes. He would have thought of her skin, the way different lights would make it look more beautiful, more transcendental.
No doubt she was a beautiful woman. It's another matter that her beauty was not blatant; it had the understated subtlety that was surely lacking in my own beauty. I used my blaringly conventional beauty to my full advantage, the way I was taught to; the only way I learned best to. But she, she was just something else. She was, as a matter of fact, everything I was not. Everything I would never be, and everything that he ever needed.
But he doesn't know what he needs. Apart from using my blaring conventional beauty, I also know how to use my hideously twisted mind, to my full advantage, surprise surprise. He needs what I make him believe he needs. He needs me. But he doesn't. Anything but me. I'll be the death of him. And then slowly die myself. But I died already, last night, because I am her. I am his first wife, I am everything he needed.
And now I'm gone. A shadow, a lie, a big black facade he never even thought of. Not once, it's all one big scary lie. He blinked now. And now I watch from this world of darkness, as he walks up the stairs, a cup of tea in his hand, having no memory of any of this, no wives, first or second, just a lovely movie he's got on pause he has to get back to. 27 minutes for it to end, and then he'll head to sleep where I can haunt him again in dreams he'll never even remember, because they'll never happen really. Nothing does. Nothing ever happens. Surprise surprise.
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