Whenever she mentioned going out it made me feel physically sick. I always knew that this was her chance to leave me, her chance to be with someone else, someone who would make her happy for just one night. I would sit in the lounge with the television blaring and dig my fingernails into the fabric of the sofa when she spoke of going out. Cold, hard dread would fill the pit of my stomach because I knew that tonight another man’s hands would touch her, he would hold and caress her breasts and kiss her starved, wet lips. I knew that a faceless man’s tongue would touch things that were meant to belong to me, precious, secret treasures that were mine and only mine.
I would hate it most when she went out alone. When she was alone there was no one there to look after her or restrain her in anyway, even her horrid swarm of quasi-friends would occasionally make sure that she made it into the back of a taxi, with her lipstick smeared and her mascara running in the rain. When she went out alone she would drink even more than usual, since there was no one to judge or restrain her rampant lecherous behavior, so it would go entirely unchecked. The first few times I tried to join her on her nights out and pretend that I enjoyed being in smoke-filled, overcrowded bars, where I was forced to watch the other men staring at her breasts which were inevitably and quite intentionally, spilling out over her top. I never understood why I wasn’t enough for her, why she had to dress like a complete slut in order to get attention. I never knew why she enjoyed the men gawping at her as she prowled and pranced around the bar, knocking drinks out of people’s hands and flirting and groping anyone that would tolerate her for even a fleeting moment.
She would never seem to realise through her drunken haze that they were being openly patronising and laughing at her. She always thought she was the vivacious centre of attention with her skirt so short you could see the accumulation of dimpled cellulite around her thighs. I would follow in her wake leaving a trail of meek apologetic smiles and placatory replaced drinks behind me. Why was my affection and unerring devotion to her not enough? She would continue to part her lips at every stranger in the vicinity, while I watched from a secluded corner, trying desperately to convince people that she was just a friend or a work colleague, not my lover, in order to justify her obscene behavior.
She did it when she knew I was watching her; it seemed to encourage her, like she was getting off on it, knowing that I was in agony. As she unashamedly slurred into the ear of some smug looking man who insisted on winking at me over her shoulder as he stroked her arse, I would just sit and bite my lip until it bled and fight the urge to smash my glass into his throat and then repeatedly stamp on his ignorant face until it caved in – maybe I could even take her high heel and stab it into his eyeball.
I could never mention this to her or this would result in the inevitable screaming match in the taxi queue, where other gentile, well dressed couples would silently judge us and hope that they would never end up like that. As I stood there and watched her, I would have to feign a smile and pretend that I was enjoying paying for everything while she got more and more drunk and continued to scrape away my insides with every lurching move she made.
Eventually, I decided that the ignorance of bliss was a far more beneficial approach for me. Instead of having to watch her do such hurtful things, I would be psychologically tortured by my imagination instead. I would lie in bed grinding my teeth together; playing and replaying the possible sexual scenarios she was currently involved in. These disturbing pornographic images would flash over my eyelids as the glaring red hours on my bedside clock would slowly scrape by. She would always materialise at some unholy hour in the morning, even though she knew I had work in the morning. I would hear the sound of metal on metal as her keys slipped into the lock, having been dropped on the floor during the first few unsuccessful attempts. She would stumble down the corridor and she would always miraculously manage to knock the phone of its stand in the hall. It would clatter on the floor and then she would swear drunkenly as she invariably kicked it someway down the hall.
