Continued...Just as I began to enjoy the smell an escape, a buzzing phone dances at the bottom of my Rochas borsa (Yes, I’m only wearing big bags now). It’s him. My dumb mother must have leaked this number. I always knew she was on his side. I answer without saying anything, and await his stern voice.
“Where the hell are you kid?”
He never says hello or goodbye when we speak, just jumps to a request. I’ve always hated that.
“Did you get the package? When can I see you?”
Before I cave in, a strength within throws my phone overboard. He will never find me now that he sinks under a highway of Rivas. I should throw the package over as well. Agh, the package. The reason I’ve escaped from home.
As hulking as he appears cinching his colossal biceps in JP knits, he is quite the coward having his assistant deliver it...hidden inside a Smythson, my favorite of diaries, was an assemblage of paper: a scotch drenched letter, an endless blabber of formality, and three blank lines awaiting my scribbled name. He would attempt to disguise this as a gift, king of all jerks.
I think the blabber of formality proves were still married. Damn it. It was my first and only time in the city of Las Vegas. I'm embarrassed to admit I stooped to such a cliche experience, but yeah, we got married. I don't remember much of it. Everyday a glimpse of that evening squeezes into my thoughts, like the burnt orange cashmere I always wear and can't recall where I bought. I think that's what he was wearing on our wedding day.
I've never told anyone that. The story of our marriage that is...to be continued
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