Diary of the Mistress

Chapter III | Three

I lie to myself every morning, looking at my reflection in the mirror and I blatantly lie. To make myself feel better, I convince my mind that what I’m doing is right. That Abraham is in love with me and will leave Kim someday.

We all know that’s a lie.

But why doesn’t that stop me? Isn’t it enough to make me move on? Of course not, perhaps I enjoy being used and ignored. Who wants that for themselves?

Apparently me.

I fight back the urge to cry when he breaks his promises to meet me, knowing the reason he blew me off was to be with her.

His wife.

I will never be her, I can’t be her, no matter how hard I try. I realize that and somehow I’ve come to terms with it. I am not Kim, but that doesn’t stop me.

When is it going to be enough?

I sit here in this empty hotel room, feeling dirty and alone on another night that he stood me up. I will expect countless phone calls from him apologizing later, excuses varying from his wife or his children needing him.

I need him.

Abraham doesn’t realize that, maybe he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Who am I kidding? He knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows what he’s doing when he meets me in this hotel room every Sunday and knows my body as if it’ll be the last time he touches a woman. Trust me, he knows.

But so do I, but I’m not the married one. So many times I try to talk myself into walking away, but then I think about what I will have without him.

Nothing.

I’m in love with him, with all of him, including that wedding ring. I knew what I was getting into, even though it still hurts like hell. It hurts to know I will never have him, not like I want him at least.

Sometimes I hate him; I hate him so much that I could punch him until my body grows weak. Sometimes I hate myself, most of the time.

Standing up from the bed, I slid my heels back onto my feet and walked out of the hotel room. The door closing echoed through the long hallway, my shoes clicking and clacking against the hardwood floors as I headed to the elevator.

Stepping into the cart, I looked up to see my reflection as the steel doors closed. I dropped my head, too ashamed to look at myself. The bell dinged as it stopped on the first floor, the lobby busy as I walked towards the front entrance. My purse was tucked underneath my arm, my tight black dress hugging my body just right.

I stood on the sidewalk, my arm hanging into the street, motioning for a taxi. Within a few seconds, a yellow cab pulled up in front of me, the driver leaning back and opening the back door.

“Where you going?” The Mexican man asked, his accent thick as he pushed his thick black hair back from his face.

After giving him the address to my home, I sat back in the seat and stared out the window, fighting back the tears in my eyes.

I won’t let him make me cry, not again.

With little success, the tears that were in my eyes fell down my cheeks, my chin trembling as I sat in the back seat of the dark taxi. It seemed like it took hours to get home, my head throbbing as I walked into my loft. Kicking my heels off at the door, I threw my purse on the large sectional and eased into the bedroom.

Flicking the light switch up, I unzipped my dress and slid out of it. I dug through my drawer for comfortable clothes, stepping into plaid pajama bottoms and pulling a t-shirt over my head.