And I, Well...

Perhaps this is how a woman who knows she is being cheated on would feel. A cohesive look inside a moment of her thought process.

 

Decisions, direction and course of action. Like a shopping list, I categorize, contemplate, and overcome on paper, I discuss with myself what shall be done, what won't be done, what could be accomplished.  Reflection. Dismissal, interaction, vomiting.  I feel the need to use inflection, punctuation, italics, bold and abrasive contextual language. Some more vomiting, followed by the sudden rupture in time and space, the orbit of our relationship, the infinite daily trial and tribulation and apparent boredom that surrounds you and I, well…

    

I won't call my mother at three in the morning and wail over a glass of warm milk how you 'done do me wrong'. I won't make a voodoo doll(s) and stab little pins in to the eyes and smash the body with my book ends. I won't bake an endless supply of cakes, pies and fluffy biscuits as an outlet for my emotional anxiety, nor will I eat copious amounts of the exact same treats to help me deal.

    

I will consider a tryst in the woods behind my house with the proverbial unwashed hired help, reject this in the same instance, then reconsider and select from the pool boy, the gardener or the handyman. I will create scenarios where we will meet. I will wear one of those fashionable hats and sunglasses while my bathing suit clings to every single curve I have on my body, and I will say; "Hey there, young man," in my best Janis Joplin voice. Husky, tinged with whiskey and depression. In my best case scenario he takes his shirt off and rubs his forehead with it, c***s his head and smiles, and we retire to the shed behind the house where I can trace angels on to his chest with the tips of my fingers while he completes the ridiculous and regrettable revenge process by pounding in to me like a dog in heat. Worst case scenario, which is most aptly named 'reality', the selected help ignores the middle aged woman clearly desperate for attention and continues working. Then I get drunk on coolers and beer, without a hat because I don't actually OWN one like I described, and I pass out in a faint on the couch waiting for you.

    

I will absolutely strategically apply make-up to the worn circles underneath my eyes, pinch my stomach in the unattractive places and select clothing carefully before leaving the bedroom in the morning, because there must be something about me that you dislike, and I will feel that it can be covered with cosmetics and designer labels. You absolutely will not look up from your pre-packaged breakfast food and lukewarm coffee to see the effort I made, because you  have her in your eyes and your eyes on the morning paper. I will then, absolutely, cry and leave the room. It is a vicious cycle and neither of us are about to break it. End it. Complete it.

    You will make a desperate and needy phone call from your cell phone six blocks from our house. She will answer before the first ring has ended. You will whisper how badly your need to see her is, she will respond in kind, and then you will hang up the phone and drive fifteen over the speed limit to dismiss ten years of marital bliss within the tangible loop if her arms.
    And I, well…

Author's Note

I am not looking for an extensive review, but I am looking for pointers in areas such as grammar, spelling and it as a whole. Working on my flow of thought. Thanks.