Ben and I got married exactly a year ago. I don’t think he even remembers it’s our anniversary today. He hasn’t come home yet, and it’s eight in the morning.
I hear the kitchen door open and he walks in. He’s drunk.
I give him the cheeriest “Hey” I can manage. He looks at me without really looking and shuffles out, leaving behind the smell of cheap perfume, weed and something rank…
Here’s the thing. I know he’s cheating on me. It’s been going on about almost a year now. Couple months after we exchanged our “till death do us apart” crap.
How was the wedding, you ask? Why, it was beautiful. My parents didn’t show up, of course. So it was a mostly-Ben’s-side-of-the-family thing. Not the big fat wedding I’d planned all my life. Not even close. Still, it was beautiful. I felt like a million bucks in my NOT Vera Wang simple A-line lace dress. I mostly ignored Ben’s mother’s dung-under-the-nose expression. I also ignored Ben’s plastic, glassy smiles and his constant yapping with my very Seph-whore-afied cousin known for her “generosity”.
I wipe my hands on my kitchen apron and pull it off, and wander upstairs. Ben’s sprawled on the bed, fast asleep, his shirt on the floor. I pick it up to see obvious lipstick stains on the collar. I kind of like pain, but this has to stop. Who knows she’s given him what disease?
I’m about to go do laundry when his phone beeps.
It’s his best friend John. (John is a make-up artist.)
“I love you. Next time we do it without the rubber,” the text says.
– Libby’s diary entry, September 2006.
(Too many plot holes. I know. Also, I’m taking a break. Like, for a whole week. Give y’all a break from me. If missing me gets unbearable, you can always leave loving comments in any of my ten thousand posts.)