”I love her, she is one of a kind to me. She is the woman I will marry, without a doubt!”
“Then why are you cheating on her?”
He wants me. I do not know if it’s only lust, or is he fooling himself into a sham marriage, or both. I do not know whether I should feel flattered over his strong and obvious attraction towards me, or I should feel angry for his desire for me, a desire most likely stemming from instinct, a desire that is egoistical, with no regard for the feelings of the woman who loves him. A desire that is superficial, for its voluptuousness can only be born when its roots are deeper than a beautiful body or a beautiful face.
There is a sadistic pleasure that some women have, knowing that they are the other woman, that a man spills all his passion in their embrace, then he goes back to the one that awaits for him at home. They feel victorious. And why wouldn’t they? They’ve won the war… right?
Wrong. The only winner is that man. She, and the other, are nothing but collateral victims of this man’s selfish love for himself. Sometimes the other woman is an accomplice. This war, of the other woman, against an enemy that has done nothing wrong, an enemy that does not have even the slightest idea of what is happening is an illusion, the enemy is an illusion. Otherwise, the other woman, could never love the man, if she wouldn’t lie to herself.
His hand lightly touches my long hair. His voice shivers as he tells me how beautiful I am, ”not a mesmerising beauty” he adds, in a fit of sincerity, ”but you’re not like the others.”
”I can’t be like the others, I am like me.”
”No, it’s something else, there’s something about you.”
”I must leave.”
He grabs my hand, he doesn’t want to let me go. I continue to smile. I could shred him to pieces.