Love You To Death
There’s something in the way he talks about you whenever he brings you to meet his friends. He has a possessive hold on your waist – or your hand but it doesn’t really matter because the grip is tight all the same – and he’s got you glued to his side. He introduces you with gloating in his voice and you, in all its sick glory, feel proud of yourself. You’ve just been paraded by him in front of his friends like some sort of trophy, and you think of it as some sort of achievement.
That night you meet so-and-so, his childhood friend and fellow office mate. She’s a good lady, awfully beautiful too. You know it, and your boyfriend knows it too. You spend the night with your boyfriend sandwiched in between you and her, and all throughout the night you feel as if you’re the third wheel. She’s much closer to him than you will ever be, and it’s a bitter pill to swallow.
So you gulp down your shot of tequila, suck hard on your lemon slice, swallow, and ask for another one. You find company in the man seated in front of you, talking in hushed undertones as he sips on his coke and whiskey.
When you’re deep in the conversation with John or Stephen or David or Alex – or whatever – and your eyes are sparkling and the alcohol is alive in your bloodstream, you are forced to come down from the high by a hand gradually tightening around your thigh. You look away and see your boyfriend seething, the jealousy evident in the way his dark eyes flash.
It’s unfair how he can be so free, how he can do whatever he wants. It’s unfair how you always end up following him, how you end up leashed and gagged and disciplined as if you’re his dog – his bitch.
And maybe that’s what you really are. But you don’t stop this bullshitry. Instead, you stop talking to what’s-his-name, and resort to looking at the fasten of the watch your boyfriend gave you years ago – back when he was still your lover and not your master, your owner.
You follow through with what he wants because you’re a good girlfriend. After all, you love him to death.