What can be said of Victoria? Blue. The first time I met her, I saw blue in her aura and all around her.
Why does she always seem so happy? Why does she seem so unaware? So unsuspecting?
She seems to keep an abundance of energy in her outermost layer, but beneath that layer is an inextinguishable exhaustion. She can’t sleep it off; it goes deeper than that.
She’s dissatisfied with something. If it’s her marriage, maybe I’m doing her a favour.
Does she realize the world changes every second? I really can’t tell.
She’s very small. We’re the same height. Just a physical property, though. I really don’t feel that she sees me as a threat; she would have looked at me differently if that had been the case.
I know that look. I’ve received it from countless wives. It’s that jealous look that says, “Don’t you even think about it!” I don’t get that from Victoria.
Of all people, right?
I was never a threat to Chester’s wife—he was incredibly unwilling—and yet that was the look with which I was always greeted. I guess I was just hoping to make an enemy.
You know, it’s not the sex that bothers most women whose significant others have been seeing someone else—it’s the knowledge that he has shared something more than his body, which is often the case, with another woman. I have heard of women weeping over their husbands’ platonic affairs.
This is really beginning to feel like an affair. It’s just a matter of waiting for the act. The waiting place. I’ll be here for another couple of months, at least. I now know what it’s like to be a man—that complete preoccupation with sex.
It’s quite an experience, actually. The physical intimacy isn’t there. Sometimes it’s all I need, but the effort seems futile and I must admit to being afraid of the rejection. More often than not, though, I expect that he anticipates that I will make the first move. It’s always me. I must always be the one to place his hands where I most want them.
I get cold feet.
If only he were more physically assertive with me.
Pull up a chair…