#asundered

     " oh , “   his shoulder hits the doorframe with a thud and his arms cross as though they’ll protect him from anymore comments such as that one.   

     all she’s trying to do is make him consider what kindness he might have needed as a younger man that he has the opportunity to extend to harper now,   but the part of his brain that clung to rationale like that had been turned off ages ago.   

amy,    you can’t seriously tell me that you married this idiot ?

i know,   retract my claws lest i scratch myself with hypocrisy.   forty’s famous last words ring loud and clear in my eardrums.   my brother lives in my head and i can practically see him clicking his tongue in my direction.   i push forty back into the depths of my guilt and focus on the situation at hand.   i too married an idiot,   amy.   we’re both women who made mistakes in life but there’s no reason we can’t learn from them.   my own idiot is somewhere in the local library figuring out who he wanted to fuck next while rearranging aisles by the dewey decimal system.   much too preoccupied to worry himself about what his doting wife was getting up to,   which is fine by me.   gives me more time to fix some problems for you.   for you amy,   i’m handling the biggest thorn in your side.    he’s a rather heavy one at that.

it took all my strength to carry nick dunne into the basement of fresh tart.   i didn’t intend him any harm when he came in asking for a box of pastries.   in fact,   i never meant to get involved in the first place.   you with your picture perfect marriage and mine with my   …   well,   it’s complicated.    but when he came in asking for an order that i just knew wasn’t your regular,   i couldn't just stand there watching.    women like us are always taken for granted.    we forget to remind our husbands that we are a privilege not a right and in turn,   we are made the villains.    oh the laundry list of reasons joe could rattle off for why he can’t keep it in his pants.    i see him in nick.   not all of him,   but the dirtiest parts.    you see,   joe isn’t all bad.   it’s why i put up with it.   the good,   and he’s so good sometimes,   makes it easy to forget the bad.   but your husband ?    he’s rotten to the core. 

you're smart. talented. you wear the big i'm married, don't even look at me ring, but the low-cut dress that screams fuck me into the wind. you know exactly what you're doing, at any given moment of the day. you are, for a lack of a better term, a perfectionist. a bottle blonde, elitist wife. that's not to say that's a bad thing — you read austen and dickens and sit in your ivory kitchen, and you write. god, you're a writer! i see you though your windows — lamenting, mourning... i see the hurt and the downtrodden ache of an unloved wife. you are a writer, and i just happen to be a reader.

but — you're married. you are... safe. you are all the fire and the attention, and allowing the wick to burn down to ash. in addiction, it's all about moderation. it's about balance. and i'm able to balance keeping my distance and indulging in the darkness every now and then. so thank you, the state of new york, for giving me that out.

the mall is just as dilapidated as every other building not on our street — boarded up, broken glass pooling in muddy puddles where the kids race their bikes and chew bubble gum until launching the remains into the most inconvenient spot imaginable. you walk, i follow. at a distance. the key to all this is distance.

— wait. where the fuck did you go?

i take my eye off you for five seconds. five seconds. and like some holy fucking apparition, you're behind me.

shit.

"what, we don't believe in happy coincidences anymore?" okay, play it cool. there are other reasons to be at the mall. think of one, idiot. i wouldn't stalk you, if that's what you're implying. and, in the interest of honesty, let's keep it that way. arm's length. then everybody's happy. you. me. love. that useless slob of a husband of yours — nick. nick the dick.

FINALLY after what, a year?

“   all the talk about music row would have me believe   that the two of you got hitched and have spent all summer making babies in some intimately remote part of the caribbean?    you’re lucky i know better than to think ferris has the complexion to withstand that kind of heat.   “   

“   can i say something a little annoying?   “    𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐬𝐤.   the footprint left behind by their environments is a similarly thick skin that protects them from any caustic hunt for finer feelings under the dermis.   beyond that ,  she’s tougher than he is by any measure that matters.   but he knows what surfaces her nerves.   

“   𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮.   “   completely understandable that when presented with a choice between spending precious downtime with their families mid holiday season or stomaching the most offensively expensive gluten free catering service available for the enrichment of office morale as though the tone deaf gesture truly bridges the wage gap between the vertical line of authority,   most people would choose to stay home.   not colom,   though.   his family isn’t interesting enough to be worth the airfare to chicago,   and if he isn’t endangering the water then he gets bored,   he sinks,   he dies,   like a shark.