A life in 10 minutes. An anthology is published and I realize it's been the better part of 2 years since I first scribbled my 10-minute heartache here. It seems impossible. Not because of how fast time flies, but because I can't believe nothing has changed since then. Scratch that; things have changed but only for the worse. Have I really been waiting for so many months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, heartbeats? I'm suddenly looking down on this from the outside and it's pathetic. Me, still waiting for my fairy tale of romance and chemistry to start again, but it's unraveled back beyond Once Upon A Time. I guess there's no Twice. It's one thing to create something out of nothing, another to re-create it from its calculated destruction. "I already told you once, I'll tell you again, I don't want to have an affair," he yells after being the one who penned the tale -- telling me one day out of the blue he was in love with me, arranging our meetings, kissing me first. He expects me to be impressed by repetition of this new sentiment. I wish I had saved all his "ILY" texts to count back the number to him.
I don't have a dull life. In the time I've been waiting for him to start sending me kisses again, I've traveled across the world, hit 5 continents on spectacular adventures, seen epic landscapes, and yet I count the hours not by the wide-eyed moments of wonder in which I've beheld this grand planet, but by the broken heartbeats that measure out the silent spaces -- the hours bracketing sleep when I used to smile in the dark next to my snoring husband, remembering all the cuddles and kisses ... so many my lips got chapped when we met in secret perfection. I count by the "0"s where there used to be a "1" beside my "inbox" several times each day, by the days that stack up in a row that he doesn't call. "Everything's different, I'm going to be a grandfather," he says like he's better than me now. Started putting me down next to his "saintly" wife with whom he's not in love like I'm a lowly whore, rewriting the standards for sainthood to a thin and humorless tolerance of a husband's interests and passions, a simple-minded loyalty that's hardly more than a lack of cleverness or creativity to imagine a better match.
Maybe this is not my entire life in 10 minutes, but damn, it's 2 years. Condensing, crystallizing down to the leaden tip of my mechanical pencil and really pissing me off. Maybe tomorrow I should quit waiting.