I was lying in our apartment. The soft light of the desert sun was bleeding through the plastic vertical blades of the blinds and there was the familiar person sitting on the edge of the couch. It wasn't my husband, no, it was some one else I had never met. I remember flashes of Polaroid pictures of random, unrecognizable things. There he was, sitting at my feet, and the couch was misplaced on the side wall, in front of the door. I didn't want my husband to find him so I tried to shake him off, but then I ended up lying in bed with this person masturbating at the foot of the bed, and then he started to crawl onto of me. A part of me wanted to take the non-selfless route, but I didn't. I remember walking around racks of thrift store clothes, and then pushing him out the door. I told him, “If my husband sees you, he's going to murder you."
I walk back into my apartment, and I'm picking up Polaroid pictures of a hand, stitched back onto an arm at the wrist.
I woke with this unmistakable feeling of guilt, and feeling like I will be contacted by someone who I wish I could put six feet under.
