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Showing posts from March, 2014

Play, Boy

Her husband has been adding women to his Facebook. The kind of women considered whores when they were in high school and still appeared to seem so. Selfishly, her husband likes their 100s of half-naked photos and leaves them risqué—no, lewd—comments, passing by on homepage tickers everywhere.
The children see and become uncomfortable around him.
His parents see and become uncomfortable around her.
It’s been too long since she’s been a comfort to herself.

She starts moving her stuff into the guest bedroom. Her favourite blue sweater on Tuesday. Tubes of her lipstick on Wednesday. A bookshelf by Saturday. He is happy because he thinks books are ugly décor, so he notices that, but nothing else. She notices that the purple shade she painted the guest room years ago doesn’t look good at any time of the day, so she covers the walls with more of her bookcases and buys two new lamps and a dark green blanket for the bed.
28 days later, Lyndsay officially moves out.
Her husband doesn’t notice …