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Renee Murrey
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You will be glad we got acquainted
You will be glad we got acquainted

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Your drawings that I hang on my bedroom walls. I especially remember that one drawing of a teary girl just about to be kissed by a boy. I remember staring at this drawing while I lay in bed wondering why the girl had tears in her eyes. I guess I was yet to understand that love is not love without tears huh? That girls always make their tears visible while the boys, not so much? I loved that drawing. True artist that you were, you’d not said much about the drawing when you gave it to me, giving it the chance to speak to me instead.
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Anger is easy. My anger is justified and even expected after a betrayal of this magnitude. At this point, I understand anger only too well. But an emotion is creeping in as I listen to my wife bring words to life. I don’t want to understand this feeling because I don’t want it. Not now.

But this feeling is overwhelming and it is drowning me in tears. Making me weak. While I was frozen hard and numb before, now I’m all soft and runny. At this point, with that voice, I don’t know where my brokenness begins and where Eva’s ends.

My wife is bidding me farewell.
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“Is that Dan’s child?” I ask again.

Eva remains mute for eternity. I see the tears welling up in her eyes, organizing themselves, eager for a comeback. I see them roll down her cheeks, make two parallel streams, find their way down to her chest. In the last two days of coffee and a slice of love, I’ve wondered how possible it is that that well hasn’t dried up.
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“Why?”

I have tried to come up with answers to this question for the last two days. I thought our life was good. I thought our sex life was good. So why? Why did she feel the need to cheat? Why was it necessary for her to have sex with another man? Was I not enough? Was I crazy to imagine that two people could commit to each other, do what they love – she loves her music, I love my writing – and want nothing more? What was Dan bringing to the table that wasn’t already on our table?
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I would go to the bathroom, fetch a towel, soak it in warm water, wring it, sit on the bed, put both her feet on my laps, and knead her legs from the toes all the way up to her knees. I would massage her feet, her shoulders, her back. I would proceed to her thighs, her inner thighs, her inner inner thighs and I’d take my time there. Hell, I’d stay there. Soon enough, I’d have my head buried between her thighs and she’d have her eyes shut, her teeth biting her lower lip, her hips arched and her hand touching the back of my head. This woman whose every curve I adored! Soon enough, she’d be on top of me and she’d allow me to enjoy her suppleness. Soon enough, we’d be blissed out and she’d rest her head on my chest.
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On all three days, the offender will accept the coffee offered. Whether they feel like drinking coffee or not. Whether they’d prefer some tea, or juice or a shot of vodka or not. Whether they’re late for work or not. They will take the cup of coffee offered, and they will drink it. All of it. Bitter or sweet, they’ll drink it. Oh, and they will look at the offended party as they accept the cup of coffee from them.

And they will say thank you.
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His phone is by the bedside. A message buzzes in. You glance the direction of the phone when it vibrates, just in time to see part of the message scrolling across the screen. It is a short message. And it changes your life forever. And this is not just you being dramatic.

“I miss your kisses my darling.” The message says. Mmmh. Someone’s being getting kisses, you think. And not just from you. Your curiosity is piqued, so you pick up the damn phone. Of course, you pick up the damn phone. You read the whole thread of WhatsApp messages exchanged between your husband and his darling. His darling who’s missing his kisses. You read about the rendezvous. The sexcapades. They have been busy.
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Sit by my bedside.

Act as if no one else needs you out there. Not your job. Not our children. Not your friends. Or your colleagues. Not your life. Pause your life for me and act like this is the perfect place for you to be right now. That you’d rather be nowhere else, and with nobody else. Not even your family. You’d rather be here not laughing, not joking, and definitely not fine. You like sitting quietly and watching the monitor above my head beep my life away.
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This room. This is where I made the decision to end the tears. Ending the tears means opening our wardrobe and separating my stuff from his stuff. I’ve separated my blouses from his shirts, my pairs of jeans from his, my t-shirts from his. I have picked out my skirts and my dresses. My shoes and my towels and lessos and baby’s clothes and diapers. His clothes remain intact, mine go to the bag. His life remains intact, mine gets disrupted.
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I have a good mind to strut in here and pretend that this is not a brand new year.

I could go ahead and narrate a story I was told recently, try to make it the best read you’ve come across so far this year, yet, and hope that I succeed.

I could choose to pretend that this year doesn’t come with new dreams for you, fresh energy to achieve, rectify, explore. I could pretend that you don’t have new goals and that your resolutions have not been sufficiently edited. I could just assume that you rolled over from 2016 to 2017 the same way you roll from one side of your bed to the other, pushing your partner off the bed in the process, or, if no partner exists, barely falling off the edge of the bed.
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