I could never see her the same way as before, after picturing him entering her, even if it was his sick daydream. Sometimes I pick up the box, the one we all have somewhere hidden in our homes or garages or storage units. The one with the dried flowers, cards, letters, mixed tapes, stuffed animals, dirty photos, anything he or she might have left behind. I have letters that I read. Text and email transcripts. Some horrible poetry. I bring this box out when I need to cry and can’t, but now it doesn’t work for me anymore. I read the letters, wonder if their wives have ever seen some of the shit I’ve written, and try like hell to cry or feel or anything. And I can’t. I picture the sex. I picture the cocks. And I can’t feel. I can’t cry. Not until I remember that I wasn’t good enough for a single one, and every one of them left me. And this time won’t be any different. All the letters, all the texts, all the emails, all the clothes and stuffed animals and ticket stubs and CDs… I’ll just. .."His voice trailed off and before I was aware of it, the story of Lorelei and me, came bubbling out, but I never said her name. Even so, it hurt, I did everything but weep. When I'd finished I could see the sympathy in his eyes. I wasn't sure I wanted it, but I felt better."You've never spoken to her at all?" It wouldn't make any difference. She never called me, but even if I could forgive her, how I could never trust her. I didn't think it was possible for her to lie to me, and yet she was able to have an affair and I didn't have a clue. How do I know she wasn't back at his room for more? She might still be rutting with him, I just know that if she cheated once she could do it again."I snorted, "Besides, if just reading her name gives me a migraine, what do you think talking to her would do to me?"He didn't offer me the sales job, and he didn't mention getting professional help, but in the material he gave to look over was a copy of our health care coverage. The section on.
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