I was her.
“Hey,” he said to me when my eyes opened. His finger lightly grazed my cheek. I felt him as he watched me. The smell of his cologne still hung in the air, stealing every breath. I loved the smell. I loved this feeling. I loved the way the two of us fit, it wasn’t perfect, just aligned enough to not make you want to step out.
At least that’s what I hoped.
And I hated that I did.
I’ve stared into these chestnut brown eyes for so many mornings. So many mornings that hadn’t belonged to me yet I stole them anyway.
“What are you thinking about,” he whispered to me and a faulty smile followed. I wonder if at moments like these he has wandered into that place too. That place where he has acknowledged that he isnt home with his wife, his children, and that the hand that has gently caressed my face is without its symbol of forever. His ring left on the nightstand, waiting for when he’s ready to be the married man, dedicated father he is.
I’ve wondered.
His phone goes off before I can answer and we both know what it means. My phone sounds as well. I know what it mean but he doesn’t. He doesn’t wait for my answer on my thoughts. Maybe it’s because he really doesn’t care. Maybe because it’s urgent. But maybe I should know better than to care.
He’s delivered a kiss to my cheek, dressed, and gone before the moment has sunken in. I can't linger in the moment. I have a job. I reluctantly roll over to answer the text from his wife because she knows.
When I’ve answered her. I leave my note for him. He and I were to meet again tonight but we won’t. I’ve done what I was hired to do. His wife has what she needs and I have to break it. Why this one was so much harder I don’t know. Maybe it’s time to stop being her.
It’s become so ingrained in my being now. I am that other women for her. They reach out. And I deliver Justice. She is me.
I am her.
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