Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404
Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, so I’ve been hearing from all of my lovers. The married ones, especially, have been sending me gifts and money. They think they’re buying silence, but the truth is…they’re not. They’re buying the story they tell themselves in the mirror about how they’re still good men, even though they’re fucking filthy cheaters. And me? I’m the price of that delusion.
A serpentine bracelet, diamonds for scales, emerald eyes. It’s from Michael, the cardiologist. His wife posted a photo this morning of the heart-shaped pancakes she made for him. “My rock, my everything,” the caption read. Michael’s hands, the ones that hold human hearts for a living, were trembling when he clasped this expensive bracelet around my wrist. He wasn’t paying for my affection. He was paying to prove to himself that he could still be reckless, even while being overwhelmed by minivans and mortgage payments.
The Day Before Valentine’s Day
On the dresser, is a bottle of perfume from David, the corporate lawyer. Not just any perfume. One that’s discontinued, that his wife wore on their honeymoon. He spent six months and a small fortune tracking it down. He gave it to me last night because he had to work today. “I just wanted to smell it again,” he whispered. But he didn’t mean on her. He wanted the scent, but without the history or the weight of the promise he broke to her when he met me.
Their wives get the public adoration, the social media tributes, the safe, sanctioned romance of February 14th. I get the raw, feral day before because I’m the secret they keep from themselves. I’m their secrets, confessions and their corruption.Tomorrow, they will hand over roses and bland Hallmark cards, look their wives in the eye, and swear their fidelity with a serene conviction. And their sweet, innocent, unsuspecting wives will believe it. If only they knew.
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