"You haven't made love to me in five days. What's wrong?" my bride asked.
I was sitting at my computer, finishing my projects simulations. "A dip in sexual activity makes you think something's wrong?"
"It's not the first indicator. Please answer me. What's wrong?"
I hated myself for keeping her out of my feelings. But I needed to focus. The contract on this project was worth five-hundred thousand American dollars and wasn't going to get itself done; and I couldn't finish it if I was slumped into a depression. "Nothing's wrong," I lied. "I've just been really focused. This'll get done soon and we can be back to normal then."
She came up behind me and wrapped her arms around my neck to hug me. I rubbed her arms to share the affection.
"I know you're keeping something in." She kissed me, "how are we going to trust each other if we can't be honest with out feelings?"
Marrying a model may not have been my best choice in relationship structure. I knew I'd pay for it somehow. But I didn't think it'd be this hard of a punishment. "There's nothing," I lied again, this time looking up at her to assure her. "You worry too much. I'm fine."
When I turned back to the computer, she watched me work for a little bit, or so I thought. While I was moving the physics shapes into position, she was counting the internet tabs and the windows that were open. She noticed the extra minimized window. When I had failed another attempt, I leaned back into her with a sigh of frustration. Her hand moved down to my mouse and hovered over the open icons on the start bar. When she saw her fan page was open, she clicked it.
"Stalking me much?" she asked with a smile.
I looked at what she was doing. Everything in me wanted to stop her from seeing. Every impulse wanted to take the mouse back and hide it all. And every scenario played in my mind. There wasn't a single situation where she didn't find out, this way, what I was feeling. I had no choice but to let it play out and hope she drew the wrong conclusion.
"Now, I see," she said. I hated it when she said that.
She read the conversation between her and a few fans. I closed my eyes and waited. She held me closer and knew exactly what was on my mind.
"You sucker," she said with a smile. "You fall for it every time."
"Please, don't," I replied. I hated admitting my flaws; especially my jealousy. I hated being jealous. I hated being jealous over my own wife. I hated feeling like I had to compete. I hated feeling that she adored the attention of her fans than the admiration that I gave her.
She kissed my cheek and whispered, "if this is what keeps my husband from his bed at night, then how are we going to last more than a year?"
My mind had already wrapped around her habits. She liked to lead people on without caring about them. She liked the attention.
"I love you," she told me, accenting every word to make her point. "You please me in ways no one ever has."
"But you want others to please you," I quoted what she said to a fan. "Who am I to hog all of your excitement and attention to myself?"
I leaned forward to finish working, but she pulled me back to my chair. "Let me finish. You treat me right and I won't do anything to lose that. You respect me and I value that more than this little flirtation." She waved her hand at the screen as if to shoe the image away. "You're all I want. Now, how can I prove that?"
I wanted to tell her to want me. But she wouldn't understand what I mean by that. I wanted to tell her to love me as much as I love her. But, keeping my feelings from her doesn't really show her just how much I love her. I wanted to tell her to only want to please my eyes. My eyes are on her, but she wanted to please everyone who looked at her. There was nothing I could say that would make her understand. I felt like one of a million people in a crowd, staring in awe at her beauty. I felt like just another face in a sea of faces: one she wouldn't care to find as long as all eyes were on hers. I felt like a nobody compared to the number of her adoring fans. Inferior and jealous is all I could see in the mirror.
"Hold me," I said. "If you want to make things right. Just hold me."
Created: Mar 18, 2014chrisinthekeys Document Media