The Other Woman

Journal Entry One,

My therapist told me that I should write down my feelings or events that seem to stick to me. I don’t pay her for nothing, so I will have to listen to her. However, I refuse to date these entries because time is my enemy. The days mock me. They mock the progress I have been making. For me, my progress is never fast enough. I am told to be patient, so here I am. Patiently writing when all I want is to forget. I want to exist without existing. Fade into the cold floor of the apartment you had left me. I want to drown my misery with cognac until the world turns into a whirlwind of colors and shapes. But alas, I know you wouldn’t want that for me. So, I am trying.

Before you took your life, you told me that I was created to love. It was what I did best. So, I have loved deeply, and I have loved many. But Francesca, it isn’t helping. I am drowning in my emotions. Suffocated in my trauma of you. With your last breath, you had shred my heart into pieces. Pieces that I might never be able to put together. Moscow looks grey without you. Once you had bought color into these streets. Now they are lifeless, twinkling’s of colors and emotions only brought by my lovers. Yet, they cannot compare to you.

Daniel, I dedicate this entry to your wife,

You get to fall asleep in his arms every night. Arise before the sun breaks to the sound of infant tears. The cries pierce your perpetual restless sleep. The crying makes you think of me. To you, I am a barren wasteland while you are a flowering garden. He stays in bed. Work, he excuses himself. You loathe him. The hatred brews in your heart with every passing day. A scalding burn that runs through your body. A loathing that has torn the two of your apart. But I know that your storming hatred will soon die down. Do you think that he doesn’t notice the gaze you have when you see him? The faint glimmer of anger. At one point, you would welcome him home with delight, and he misses those days. He wakes only a few hours later, kissing you and your sleeping child goodbye. He still loves you. But love is never enough. That is what he must learn.

Leaving the pristine city apartment with clean, soft red rugs and bronze elevators with polished doors. He makes his way to work. You want to yell at him before he leaves: Daniel, why don’t you see my anguish and pain?

The week before, you mentioned that you wanted to move to the suburbs. Buy a house with a nice sized yard for your future kids to play in. He has been thinking about that, even though you think he doesn’t listen to you. He does. The word suburbs never leaving his mind, followed by your hatred of him. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. The suburbs mean eternity for him. It means finally settling down. Marriage was one thing but this- He had never looked this far ahead, but he loves you, and he loves his small son. So, he considers it, using his brief breaks to look into the question. Asking his coworker Misha about the suburbs. Misha has three children. All girls. Your husband knows that you don’t like Tatyana, Misha’s wife. She’s too put together, as you say. But in reality, you are jealous. Such a nasty emotion. The burn of lemon on your tongue following a shot of cognac. Jealousy is unbecoming. It doesn’t suit your pretty face. I want to tell you to smile and welcome him with open arms.

Do you feel resentful when you smell my cologne on his shirt? You must wonder why a woman wears such a masculine scent. Maybe you wonder if his lover is a man. It must drive you insane. However, that is not the point.

The point is that you must wonder if he really loves you or has it become a habit to love you? His love for you is such a fickle thing. You presume it. Because why shouldn’t he love you? You have given him a child; you had given him years of your life. From dawn till dusk, you watch the life you two had created. So, how dare he treat your love so selfishly?

For me, his love is not fickle. It is passionate and profound. It is complex and flavorful. The taste of barrel-aged red wine. Smoky, sweet, fruity, sour. His love is the smooth leather of a Birkin bag. I get drunk of his selfless love. A love that was lost but had found its way towards me. I guide him. You should be thankful for me. Now he comes home to you with a smile. Your hatred doesn’t bother him anymore. Instead, he brings you flowers—a bouquet of 11 red roses. But roses don’t suit you. Next time he will get a bouquet of sunflowers. I know that you will like them more.