Irritated, he ground his cigarette into the ashtray.
“The problem is, Jillian’s love for me is flawless. If it weren’t for that damn video, I’d have no reason to break up with her. But marry her? Then what? The rest of my life would be flat, boring, predictable. What’s the point? Can you imagine preferring your own hand over touching her? Because that’s where I’m at.”
He then lit another cigarette, drawing in a long drag, the smoke curling around him like a shroud of misery. His friends raised their glasses, nodding with sympathy, as if he were the victim.
He even brushed at the corner of his eyes, pretending to hold back tears, and downed his drink like a man betrayed by a cruel woman.
I had never seen him look so defeated before. And the fact that I was the reason he wore that look cut me to the bone.
So, to him, loving me and marrying me was agony. No wonder he always pushed me away in bed, claiming he was tired from work. But in truth, it wasn’t exhaustion. It was disgust.
And I had been such a fool. Running around to find doctors, cooking him special meals, trying every recipe to “restore his strength,” when all along, he just couldn’t stomach me.