Making everything a mystery
They say, “Men plan; God laughs.” Well, Quinn laughed, too.
In fact, I can still see her now, kneeling in her underwear on my unmade bed, running a hand through her short blonde hair and laughing darkly.
“It’s as simple as this, my dear: you’re what I require,” she’d say, mocking him.
And then I’d laugh too, not stopping to wonder if she did the same thing in bed with him, about me.
It was just one of the many things I didn’t let myself dwell on until after everything had come to an end.
When I was honest with myself, I knew she was still sleeping with Jesse all throughout our affair, and not out of some perverse sense of obligation.
But because she liked it.
And I also knew he wasn’t the only one.
But there wasn’t room for that kind of stark honesty where she and I were concerned, not in conversation, and certainly not in bed. Could I have stomached it, really, if I’d let myself think about him pressing into her in the same place where my fingers were pressing? Could I have tasted her while, at the same time, thinking of her as tainted goods?
More than once in our staggered romance, I came across the evidence of strange fingerprints on her body and panicked, my adrenaline spiking as if I’d walked in on an intruder. Only I didn’t really belong there either; I never had. (x)