The Other Woman

"Because I was going to be the other woman, I belonged to no one...
and belonged to everyone."

She picked up her phone for the twelfth millionth time, heart skipping a beat. A terrible war raged in her mind. How had she become this person, seeking this unfulfilling attention from lesser men? She took a swig from a paper bagged bottle. Her head rolled back on the couch as her twisted thoughts crippled her usually collected composure. The alcohol swirled and mixed with her toxic fantasies.

He responded. His wife had gone to bed. He was all hers now. She giggled guiltily. Giddy to talk to him. Feeling feminine to have his attentions. Yet, she knew. He knew nothing about her. He thought nothing of her emotions, feelings, dreams. But she entertained his biased and one-minded objective. He had no damn respect for her. He was interested in one thing, and she, the lonely and broken, made a good lover of the night. For one moment of instant gratification, of feeling like she mattered and belonged, she sold herself short.

She had once been a beloved girlfriend. In a very distant past, she had been a wife and lover. But a woman just like her had stepped into her life and ripped and divided her world into empty, lonely pieces, taking what she once had, knocking down what she had spent years building.

He got the pictures he wanted. He heard the words he desired. He felt more of a man now. He was satiated for the moment. He went to bed. She sat on her couch, naked and bare. The shame swimming underneath the numbness she'd fortified her heart. Blackened, broken twisted heart. But no one will know. No one sees this beaten, tortured, wretched, doleful soul. She stood and dressed her borrowed body. Because these days, it did not feel like it belonged to her anymore.

And so she stepped out into the night, dark and welcoming. One foot in front of the other, slowly. Left. Then right. Then left. Right. Faster, quicker until her feet pounded the pavement mercilessly. There were no tears. These days tears were scarce. Just sweat, shame, and the need to run away from the blackness.

The circles and patterns of life were funny. Once upon a time, she was the wife asleep in her bed without proof but with every instinct and burning intuition. From girlfriend, to wife, to the other woman. The other woman, free to seduce and play games. It's a new kind of insanity.

She finished her run and went back home. A shower was not even a priority. She was dirty on the inside; what did it matter that she be clean on the outside. She finished the bottle and passed out in bittersweet oblivion. She belonged to no one and everyone. She, the other woman.