Psycho Bitch: A Love Story

  Finally, he stopped talking and asked, "What do you think?"

  I waited a few seconds to appear as if I was giving it due consideration, "Adam, I know working with animals is important to you. I thought volunteering was satisfying you." I took his hand to give him the idea that this was important to me too. "I'm not trying to dissuade you, but let's get away from the heart strings for a moment and look at this practically. Right now, your salary is what keeps us in this condo and maintains our standard of living. My business is growing, but it isn't there yet. If I could contribute more fully to the household, I'd be all for this change because I could fill in the what ... thirty or forty thousand dollar pay cut you're bound to take. Now, baby, you don't want to lose everything we built, do you?"

  I squeezed his hand, hoping he didn't consciously recognize the implied threat in my words. I wanted him to think I meant losing the stuff we owned, not me. He liked nice things as much as I did.

  Adam stared at me for a long time before saying, "I told them I'd let them know by the end of the week."

  I kissed the back of his hand before setting it down on the couch and reaching for the remote. My focus already back on Rick and the ragtag survivors in post-apocalyptic Georgia, I said, "I'm sure you'll do the right thing. You always do."

  Beside me, Adam downed the rest of his beer and set the bottle down. I tensed and began silently chanting please don't touch me, please don't touch me, please don't touch me.

  He didn't.

  Instead he threw his Guinness bottle in the recycle bin before saying, "I'm going to bed." There was a tentative, hopeful note in his voice that I ignored.

  "G'night, babe. I'll be in soon."

  Adam didn't answer, and when I glanced his way, the spot where he'd been standing was empty.

  * * *

  A few hours later, when I climbed into bed, Adam appeared to be asleep. He was sprawled on his back, his lean, taut body exposed because he always kicked the covers off. He still slept naked—a habit he was unyielding on. I moved slowly doing my best not to rouse him. As I settled into my side of the bed, cuddling my pillow and trying to find the exact right sleeping position, I relaxed; his breathing was steady and deep.

  Just as I began to doze, Adam rolled over throwing a heavy arm across my body. His groin pressed into my buttocks and a large hand cupped my breast. I tensed. He was awake and horny.

  "I want to fuck you," he said as if the erection he was rubbing against me wasn't announcement enough.

  I think he thought it turned me on when he said things like that, but I was always slightly embarrassed by it. The words didn't sound right coming from him. I loved dirty talk in books, but with Adam it always killed my mood. I didn't say anything and lay non-responsive hoping he'd get the message.

  No such luck.

  Instead, he rolled me on my back and began fumbling with my nightgown, awkwardly stripping me as I remained limp as wet pasta. I wanted to sleep, not screw, but I wanted to argue even less. I wasn't, however, going to help him. I complied as necessary, opening my mouth or my legs when commanded, but I gave nothing back. If he was going to demand sex when I made it clear I wasn't in the mood, then he'd get what he asked for.

  "I want you to come," he groaned in my ear as he thumbed my clit, rubbing entirely too hard and too fast and refusing to alter his rhythm when I tried to show him what worked for me.

  I debated refusing him, but that would have created another argument, and I really wanted to get it over with and go to sleep. He claimed sex was no good for him if I didn't come too. So, rather than give in to the growing urge to scream at him to leave me alone and get out of my body, I grabbed his hand and pressed down hard to get him to stop. Immediately, I began flexing my vaginal muscles and pretending to convulse around him. If you're going to fake it convincingly, it takes more than some grunting.

  Finally, he climaxed and collapsed on top of me. I felt his softening penis slide from me and rest wetly along my thigh. I was unable to restrain a shudder of revulsion. I was definitely going to have to shower before I could sleep.

  "Was it good?" he asked. I could hear the smug grin in his voice as he mistook my reaction for climactic aftershocks.

  "Of course, baby. You're the best I've ever had."

  The sad part was that it was the truth. I don't know why I couldn't get into sex, but Adam was the only lover I'd ever had that could even get me to climax somewhat regularly.

  He rolled off me, and I went to shower, scrubbing away all trace of his semen. I hated the sticky, sliminess of it.

  When I climbed back into bed this time, he was snoring, so there was no danger of a repeat performance. For several long moments, I stared at his sleeping face. We'd been together for three years. I'd slept by his side every night for the last two. Shouldn't there be something more as I looked at him? Some kind of soul-deep recognition of my chosen mate?

  All I saw when I looked at Adam was the unique combination of body parts that made him up. Soft hair, a closely trimmed goatee, long lashes, and velvety skin. But, I didn't recognize him. There was no visceral understanding of the essence of him as joined to me. My soul did not see him.

  I've always imagined that two people who are truly bonded have a familiarity, an inherent type of déjà vu where even in the newness of their experiences, they recognize each other as familiar. The opposite of déjà vu is jaimas vu where despite the familiarity of a thing there is no recognition. With Adam, I had constant jaimas vu.

  Sighing, I took up my Kindle and lost myself in the romance novel I'd started earlier until the words swam on screen. Setting the eReader aside, I snuggled into the covers as a particularly erotic scene replayed itself in my head. I slipped my fingers between my thighs and quietly brought myself to a long, languid, toe-curling climax without disturbing Adam.

  4. Canine Enamored

  THE NEXT MORNING, A NOTE on the kitchen island informed me that Adam had a breakfast meeting with a client and a full day ahead. In other words, he'd be out late, which was fine with me. My relationship with Adam flowed best when we both stayed busy. It enabled me to focus on him during the small windows of time when our lives intersected. If I had to pay attention to him full-time, I think I'd go nuts.

  Still in my nightgown, I made coffee and breakfast of a shrimp omelet with cheese and tomatoes. I believe in starting the day off right. I was no good before 10 a.m., and I'd learned not to fight it. As I sipped my coffee, I skimmed the headlines on my laptop.

  As I scrolled through the various stories, one about a widower caught my attention. He had written a love song for his deceased wife that had gone viral across the Internet. I clicked through and read the story. They'd been married for sixty years, yada, yada—it was typical sap. The thing that jumped out at me was the quote from the widower that he loved her as deeply sixty years later as he did when he met her.

  With my coffee mug in hand, I stood in front of the large windows spanning my living room wall, that quote ping-ponging around my brain. How does one do that? Love someone so long? I was grateful that Adam hadn't started to bore me.

  Everything about him was the opposite of where I came from. He was smart, attractive, and kind with an adventurous spirit. I'd been raised in a two-parent household that was as unchanging as the minutes in an hour. You could tell what day of the week it was by the meal my mother served for dinner. Monday was spaghetti, Tuesday pork chops, Wednesday roast chicken, yada, yada, every day of my life.

  Other areas of my youth were just as static. We drove the same car, a grass green Buick, for the first thirteen years of my life. My father upgraded to a black cherry Crown Victoria after that and he had that well after I moved out.

  The furnishings in my parents' house never changed either. Even now, if I were to return to my childhood home, the only change would be that the furniture I grew up with is now in the basement, replaced by the new, but equally ugly, living room set.

  By the time I left for college at seventeen, I'd devel
oped an almost obsessive need for variety. I loved trying new foods, changed my computer's wallpaper monthly, and regularly changed my clothing style. There were exceptions. I applied my makeup the same as I had since I'd gotten my first makeover at sixteen. My hairstyle changed infrequently, and I liked my morning routine well enough that I never altered it.

  But, the same need for variety I felt with food, I felt with men. My relationships started out great, the attraction was there. Sex was always better early in the relationship. Everything was new, and discovering what made them tick held my interest. And, of course, they paid a lot of attention to me.

  As the relationship wore on, however, my feelings always waned. Quirks and foibles that initially had been interesting or cute became tiresome, and I began avoiding them. Soon enough he got the hint and broke off the relationship, which suited me fine.

  Some women have an issue with being the dumped party. Not me. When they break up with me, I know I won't have to worry about them being back. Besides—out of sight, out of mind. As far as I'm concerned, it's a win-win. I don’t mean to imply that I racked up lots of notches on my belt before Adam. I may be closer to forty than twenty in years, but I haven't yet broken double-digits when in the relationship game. I am a serial monogamist. All of my relationships are long, they just aren't lasting.

  Adam was different. From the day I'd met him, the attraction had been the most powerful I'd ever experienced. My body responded in ways I never had before. He was the first and only man to actually bring me to orgasm. Everyone else had been content to let me handle it, claiming it was too much work otherwise.

  Adam also had a razor-sharp mind and enjoyed getting out of the house. I was never bored with him, but when we weren't together, he rarely crossed my mind—the same as every other man before him. And, lately, all we did was argue. He constantly accused me of being inconsiderate and never considering his feelings. Not true. Most of the time, I just think he's being silly.

  If he would only get on board with me, everything would be okay. I can't seem to convince him of that, though. Still, I know my feelings for Adam are nothing like what I read about. There are no butterflies, no yearning through the day for him.

  What it comes down to is that I don't see the reason why his happiness should come before my own. You always hear that about good relationships. But, it seems so counter-intuitive to me. Why should I have to be unhappy for him to be happy? Why can't my happiness come first? Were these things even real?

  In my entire life, I can't remember feeling like that. Even my first sexual encounter had been about the end game. I'd wanted to come and had made sure I did. What else was there?

  Sighing, I drained my coffee and looked out at the city I loved. Secretly, in the place in my heart that I avoided, I wondered if I was with Adam for what he did for me and not for himself. A chill spread over me. No, I took care of him, too. I cleaned and cooked and screwed him when I couldn't avoid it. Good enough in my book.

  Wasn't it? Should I be more concerned with his happiness than a tit-for-tat on cleaning versus rent payments? Should I have agreed when he proposed?

  I shook my head. It wasn't as if it had been a real proposal. I was pregnant, and we'd agreed that marriage was the responsible thing to do. Ten weeks in, I miscarried. End of baby. End of marriage talk. That had suited me fine. I didn't want children and or to be married. When I eventually tired of Adam, I didn't want to pay for a divorce.

  I surveyed our home. A feeling of immense satisfaction washed through me. I enjoyed this place. I loved everything, from its open design to the comfortably modern furniture and the richly colored art on the walls. I didn't want to lose this. I didn't want to start over. It was easier to stay with Adam, but he needed to relax. The arguing was getting old.

  I rinsed my breakfast dishes and placed them in the dishwasher while fighting a claustrophobic feeling. My mug was the last in. It was a lovely ceramic piece in teal painted with cherry blossoms. Some people collect art, I collect coffee mugs. I have a cabinet full of various mugs in all differing sizes with eclectic designs and patterns. Each day, I used whichever mug suited my mood.

  My phone chimed. I shut off the water and grabbed it off the counter while heading to the bedroom to dress. I smiled as I read the text. One of my designers was notifying me that they'd submitted a new cost estimate based on the meeting my team had facilitated with the talking heads at Hudson Barnes. She was revising it down by several thousand dollars.

  I loved it when that happened. It was more money for me. Grinning, I went to change and head over to Kona to work.

  * * *

  Forty minutes later, I was dressed, coiffed, and made up. I packed my tote with my laptop and various papers I needed to begin working on the Hudson Barnes documentation before adding my purse and my phone.

  A quick glance in the mirror told me my armor was intact. I never left the house without being fully done. An errant smudge of mascara caught my eye, and I leaned in to wipe it away and that's when it happened. Maybe the light shifted as the sun slipped behind the clouds. Maybe it was the caffeine suddenly taking root and firing my neurons. I don't know. But, as I flaked the black clump of mascara off the underside of my eye, I saw her. The girl I refused to acknowledge. She hovered under my skin never letting me forget that my life was a carefully constructed façade.

  Gone was the accomplished woman with a man and a life others would kill for. Instead, I saw a face I'd always thought of as horsey with lips too wide and too full. I saw eyes that couldn't decide if they were brown or green, but in any case were too big and astigmatic. I saw thick, boyish eyebrows that were two shades darker than my natural hair. I saw the little girl who never measured up and the woman who hated her cowardice for accepting it in silence.

  I squeezed my eyes shutting out the apparition in the mirror. I mentally recited my affirmations. I unconditionally accept myself as I am. I unconditionally accept myself as I am.

  Opening my eyes, I took in a deep breath and forcefully banished the specter in front of me willing the new me to return. I blurred my eyes and counted to ten before allowing my vision to focus. The woman in front of me looked tense, her eyes a little too wide, her skin a bit pale, but at least she was the me I was willing to tolerate.

  As if to seal the accord between both of me, I recited my mantra aloud this time, adding “I love you” for good measure. Her eyes flickered, her lips twitched in rejection of those final words—we both knew it wasn't true.

  I all but ran out, snatching up my keys and letting the door slam behind me and trusting the automatic locks to secure my home. I did my best to calm down as I waited for the elevator. The feeling of suffocation was nothing new to me. You'd think after a lifetime of trying to outrun it unsuccessfully, I would stop trying, but I can't stand it. It was like when they took your blood pressure and that cuff they attached to you squeezed your arm. It clamped down until you thought it would cut off your circulation. That's how it felt now. As if the woman I tried to leave behind was attempting to squeeze herself into my skin and supplant the woman I was now.

  I wouldn't have it.

  I ran tense fingers through my hair, ruining the perfectly styled pixie cut. Shaking my head in frustration, I reached up to push the glasses I no longer wore up the bridge of my nose. It was a nervous gesture from a different lifetime. I'd had my eyes fixed the year before I met Adam. At seven, I'd been diagnosed with astigmatism and had worn glasses ever since. For two horrible years, I'd had to wear braces as well. When I was finally able to afford it, I'd gotten Lasik on both eyes and now had perfect 20/20 vision.

  But, every now and then, primarily in moments of stress, I seemed to forget I no longer wore glasses and ended up poking myself right between the eyes. I imagined it was some lesser version of what amputees went through. Unlike them, my separation had been voluntary, so this phantom habit baffled me.

  Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to relax. I was a grown woman. I wasn't that pathetic, usel
ess little girl who let herself be walked over by everyone. I hadn't been her since the day I realized the only way to survive in this world was to look out for number one.

  The elevator dinged, and by the time I reached the lobby, my calm had returned. Fishing around my tote, I pulled out my sunglasses and started walking toward P Street, hoping I'd be able to get my favorite table.

  It was a gorgeous early June day, the temperature in the seventies. Late Spring was one of my favorite times in D.C. The weather encouraged outdoor activity almost as if in consolation for the scorchingly humid months of July and August that awaited us. The sky was a deep azure dotted with pillowy clouds and, under the stench of car exhaust and trash, there was a hint of flowers and foliage.

  I absorbed the urban tapestry as I walked. The stay-at-home moms were out with their stroller-bound children. The cosmopolitan corporate cogs dashed to and fro; their resentment at their daily efforts lining someone else's pocket shimmered around them like a physical barrier.

  Under Mayor Anthony Williams, D.C. had begun to revitalize and clean itself up, an effort that continued well after he decided not to run again. Gone were the rotting neighborhoods and ghostly, violent enclaves. The streets were alive again and people took pride in their community.

  Our street was usually spotless, which was why the pile of cardboard stacked in front of one of the tidy row houses lining the road attracted my attention. Not the cardboard itself—our neighborhood recycled—but rather the rotting meat that they'd also put out with it.

  Didn't they know that the recycling truck wouldn't take it if it was mixed like that? I eyed the row house trying unsuccessfully to call the owners to mind. It was typical of all the others, brick painted white, a porch with a swing, and a glass paned front door. Briefly, I considered confronting the owners but discarded the notion. Nothing would be served by an angry confrontation. I could, however, leave a note. I mean tossing out meat like that would draw vermin.