Local media make the trial their top story; soon everyone knows every detail of your sins. It doesn’t matter that you helped bring a criminal to justice. It doesn’t matter that you paid the price for your mistake. One woman comes up to you in the dairy aisle to ask what kind of mother you are.
‘A weekend one,’ you reply.
You could live with your fifteen minutes of ugly fame. But your girlfriends, the ones who don’t drop you, don’t hide their contempt.
You hate the thought
That, as a man, you’d have got
High fives for your sins.
New flat; new (old) relationship status; promotion (the children live with your ex, there’s no need for you anymore to be home by dinner time); the upcoming trial of the other guy (which should end in a conviction because since you went to the police with the stalker photos he’d taken of the children, other women have come forward and testified to similar threats – this validates your decision to not be blackmailed into submission, even though you paid a high price for it).
And as of today, you’re on Tinder.
But be honest: you yearn for
Boxes with blue labels for their stuff, red labels for yours. Scarlet red – you can’t help but wonder if your soon to be ex-husband chose the colour on purpose. Isn’t he punishing you enough by making you do all the packing on your own?
The collection of Max and Olive’s drawings has you stumped for hours. He gets the children, he’ll get more drawings. So you should keep these. Then you think of the children – they might miss their masterpieces.
If you could’ve seen into the future that night.
You’ve too many regrets – all stuff you did,
not didn’t do.
You enter your magic portal (aka the garage) and turn from Mum – limping defeated from the breakfast battlefield – into six-figure marketing director. Today is Tuesday, the day he may be in town, so you take a detour to the park. He’s there; your heart races.
‘We should find another bench; one that draws less attention to itself and those sitting on it.’
‘I like this bench.’
‘What if someone sees us?’
‘Let them see us. I don’t care.’
Says he whose life is safe elsewhere.
You know he’s obsessed.
You ought to call it off but
You feel so alive.
Okay, bit against the rules of FFfAW this week: I’ve combined it with Lynn’s second love nudge, so it is a continuation of yesterday’s haibun. The photo prompt just went too well with the idea I had in mind. I think this stands on its own, though – I hope nobody’ll mind.
You have dragged your weary bones away from home and into another city, only to be locked up in a conference facility for three days. You change your mind about not wanting to be here the moment you see him. His dark eyes spark into life desires that shouldn’t be. You remind yourself of the loved ones you have kissed goodbye too early this morning. They are so far away. You need something to make this tedium bearable.
He asks if you want to skip the wine reception.
Neither of you should.
It’s the seven year itch. Or