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In the olden days, there was a fad of facial mutilation as punishment.
now, we have plastic surgery.
she had done something final today. She somewhat regretted it because it now meant she was very alone. Yet, it did seem ever so prostitute-y to keep trading your body for a tiny bit of company.
Nothing was guaranteed of course, and she was terrible at saying what she meant because she so rarely knew what she meant, but it had been a long time coming and she cut off the teddy bear who wrote in her diary.
She didn't feel euphoric or
triumphant or "now the path is clear"
she just felt sort of sad. She would miss the texts like a mother slipping brownies in your pockets throughout the day. Or something else that conveys sweets.
And at least and at last she could glean the good out of that situation ship.
She knew he wasn't nearly as kind as he forced himself to be to be in his world of his own making. Yet, she benefited greatly from the kindness. She recalled him being the one she would text when she was frustrated with a situation - him being her agony aunt. She never did anything she didn't want to do except maybe that last time when she was telling him in her head - this will be the last time you touch my body or see it like this. It felt too scary and she had disorganized attachment to say such things out loud. He had given her information, caring, attention, company, drinks. She liked him like she liked Mike and it was always temporary ... and she missed him.
and for what?
The cicadas scream in their morning rounds. She realizes infinitely how flawed and unworthy she is. Still, the undeniable thread she will chase is that feeling she had when she put her leg over his to reposition at the bar. for some reason, the fact that she felt so comfortable and the look he gave her. She was betting the farm on it.
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