Page 205 of Those Three Little Words
Yes.
Should I be happy? Probably.
But I’m sad.
I feel . . . depressed.
Used.
Nowhere close to the woman I once was.
Blakely thinks I’m insane.
Winnie believes I should give him more time.
My mom even chimed in and told me that it might be harder for him to express his feelings.
But at this point, I’m not even sure I love him anymore.
God, could you hear how bad that lie was? Because it was a very bad lie. I try to convince myself that I don’t love him. I try to tell myself all of the annoying things that he does, but they don’t seem to have an impact, and with every day that goes by that he doesn’t say it to me, I feel like I’m nothing more than a sexy buddy who’s carrying his baby, I get angrier. More frustrated. More irritated.
More depressed.
More needy for something more. Anything that will make me feel whole again.
Hence, the sock drawer, the underwear, what I’m currently doing, and the smoothie I made him this morning before he went to work out that I “accidentally” put salt in and then happily watched him make a queasy face as he swallowed. I don’t think I’ve ever been more satisfied than watching him try to figure out how I ruined his drink. Pure gold.
And I can’t seem to stop myself. Call it the hormones, the embarrassment, the loneliness, the rejection, or the inability to be loved by someone else, but it’s all getting to me.
I set the paintbrush down and step away to marvel at my work. I smile to myself as I read, “This room belongs to Johnny Jim.”
Now that is what I call decorating.
Satisfied with the change, I walk into the living room and survey the space. A few pictures of him shaking hands with some famous hockey players hang on the walls. Frankly, a little pretentious if you ask me.
So I decide to change them since I’m on a roll.
I take a seat at the desk in the corner of the living room, and pull out a Sharpie and some paper. Getting comfortable in my seat, I uncap the Sharpie and then tap my chin, thinking what to draw.
Anything could be better than a stodgy picture of two men shaking hands.
Smirking, I press my pen to the paper and start my first commissioned art piece. Commissioned by me, of course, and as I continue to draw, ensuring there’s specific detail, I know my customer will be very satisfied.
I repeat the same drawing but make some adjustments here and there.
And then one more.
When I’m done, I cap the Sharpie and stare at my drawings, chuckling.
One picture is of a penis, flaccid, looking very sad and almost weeping because it’s so sad.
The next one is a picture of just a pregnant belly and boobs, coming from the side of the paper. The penis is now happy.
The third picture is the backside of the pregnant woman, walking off the paper, hair floating in the wind, the penis is sad again. Talk about portraying a story through art. Doesn’t get better than this.
It takes me a moment and some finagling—the frames were held down with what felt like glue—but I add my new art to the walls and step back.
“Wow,” I say to myself. “Those look amazing.” I snap a picture with my phone and send it to Blakely.
