Waiting for Kisses

I'm waiting to see if he will send me kisses from Botswana. He's on assignment. I asked for two ... very conservative. Sick with anxiety he won't respond. I didn't used to have to ask; he sent hugs, kisses, wish-you-were-heres, your-breasts-are-perfect-and-kisses-sweet-as-strawberry-wines. It all stopped this winter. "Sorry. I hope you'll forgive me." 

Sorry? I went ballistic. That's the best you can do after you told me you wished you could marry me, you were deeply in love with me, you told me my insecurity that I will only be a mid-life fling to you was outrageous and offensive. Now with 6 words you turn your past litanies into lies and cast me off. It was a miracle we stumbled into acquaintance, found this intense chemistry, and you really think I'll forgive you? A miracle. 

It's been a hellish rest of the year; each day drags on as I check my Facebook inbox over and over. We used to write 2, 3, 5, 6 times a day, we were each others' routine, words had to bridge the gap between our homes on opposite sides of the country until we could meet. I'm waiting for a sign he's changed his mind. Waiting for him to call me sweetheart again. He's a Republican, I'm a communist; he called me his little commie sweetheart. What if we had actually technically slept together? I'd be losing my mind with the rejection. Hell hath no fury .....

I didn't wait for passion and physical chemistry to get married. I married my best friend, but he married the girl he was in love with. I thought the romance would bloom eventually for me as I lived with him as his wife. I've waited over 20 years. Not interested in waiting any longer; it's impossible. Now instead, while my husband is in bed asleep I'm waiting for the man who called me his sweetheart, his mistress, to send kisses from Botswana. Must build back up slowly. Virtual kisses, then real kisses. He sent two from Zimbabwe last week. He can't fall in love with his wife of 35 years any more than I can my husband. I think he is starting to see. He calls on the phone now. Once a week. 

My chair is becoming grooved from the continual weight of my butt cheeks. It's hot in here. I'll give it 15 more minutes; by then the Xanax and Ambien will have kicked in and I can go crawl in bed next to my husband and rest up so I can get up in the morning and wait some more. Not just for the message but for the whole twisted fairy tale to start again. The passion, the chemistry. It's not the most awesome fairy tale, but it's the only one I've ever had.

 

 

I've never written anonymously before but under the circumstances it seems prudent. Also I'm surprised how much I could scribble in 10 minutes and also it feels weird to "out" my situation to someone besides my shrink.