It started with an innocent fantasy, evanescent imagery in my naïve mind, dreaming of the next time we would encounter, not yet reveling in the intensity. I melted in his company, enjoyed his soft voice, so smooth and calm. He was a lover of words, the way he would digress in conversation to poetic flings. He was passionate about his purpose, passionate about his path and accomplishments, just so passionate. And like a gentle flower I blossomed under his attentive rays; he knew how to caress the petals of my soul. So I showed him some more. My days were centered on his communications, the opportunities to share time and space together. In the most benignant way, he seduced me and I fell for him. What had been erotic, amative imaginings turned to full throttle love. Yes, full throttle love. His romanticism is enchanting and he has opened up a part of me that has been so closed off from love.
Unfortunately, I cannot have him, he will never be mine. The irreversible deed will no doubt produce doom and despair. The twisted fate of our destinies is solidified.
He is married.
Yes, I am her.
La Otra. The other woman. The one whose voodoo doll has been created, shaped, stabbed, torn apart, burnt, countless times. Who have I become? Surely, my castigation is impending. The pain that I will no doubt cause is unimaginable.
I cannot listen to him tell me that he loves me. Even now, as the tears run down my cheeks, onto my arms, I cannot bear it any longer. Twenty three years of marriage, a family, a home, a respectable reputation in the community, all to hell over what? Me. Nothing but another Elliot Spitzer whore. Just a pathetic soul, pining for love and nurturance. Pathetic, I know. I will not claim innocence. I always defied love, since my past abusive relationships dissolved; I have harbored resentment and bitterness. Love was never allowed to enter the picture again, until now.
Damn me.
Damn him.
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