Leaving
It's often easy to tell when 'my' man's attention shifts from me to someone else. Maybe it was an oh-too-casual mention of having run into her at lunch that day; maybe it was seeing his hands on her back, desperate for just one touch; maybe it was the casual way he slipped in that he met her at a party, and did I know her well?Generally speaking, I'm pretty smart. I don't always pick up on what the men in my life are puttin' down, but sometimes it's glaringly clear. Sometimes it smacks me in the face so hard I lose my breath, and I wonder why oh why didn't I see this coming? Why didn't I do something - ANYTHING - to protect what I wanted to be mine?
Sometimes it's amusing, to watch from a distance, as the dance is performed with delicate, tiptoeing steps. Sometimes it's amusing to watch the casual conversation and interaction, knowing that for at least one of the dancers, the conversation is anything but casual. The simplest conversation takes on deeper meaning. His eyes cut directly to her and don't let go, all while his hand is holding mine. It's sometimes fun to play the part of the enraptured lover - pretending I don't see what's in front of my face, pretending to be so caught up in him that he has no time left for her. Letting him linger as he tries to catch one last glimpse..."What's wrong, honey? Aren't you ready to leave?" Knowing that the words have a different meaning for me, and that my flippancy is only there to disguise my hurt. Knowing that the excuses are actually lies and that I'm thought to be too naive to see through to the truth.
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