I have always been pragmatic and rather traditional, two things about me that you appreciated, at least you said you did. You said you found my uptightness sexy, in your own words. I remembering blushing and you would laugh and then show me how you felt in your own wicked way. But despite you coming across as maybe a bit condescending, I never doubted you did in fact find my uptightness attractive.
Just as I appreciated how you lived in your own world; a sassy, social butterfly that would tell raunchy jokes and send me looks across the room that made my trousers tighten. On several occasions you made me leave the room to clear my throat and have some iced water. Then you would in turn, after several days of dinner parties and late nights, transform into the most pleasant keeper of house I’ve seen. The kitchen would fill with your clear singing and our home would go warm with the affectionate looks shared over the table for just us and the cat to see.
So when you agreed to go through with the procedure I was envisioning days of good home cooked meals and conversations of your last adventures, without missing out on one or the other, and I will admit that I had hoped for something in the boudoir as well.
But I stand here in the hallways with the stench of the tower of dishes left around the house, dust covering every surface and your bedroom door have been locked for days, save for a faint scampering I hear during the night.
I find myself regretting not taking your narcissism into account.