I didn’t want to end up finding sticky pictures of myself all over my own house, so I started tacking up pictures of you instead. I put them everywhere I couldn’t reach them: above the sink, on top of the refrigerator, in the bookcases, under the pillows. I put them in these places, thinking I would see them and he would see them, and that would somehow roll back the grin. I started handing them to my husband when they came in the mail, and bcc:ing them to him when they clogged my inbox. I made a pimp and whore of him. He did anything I asked, and he talked dirty to me irregardless of my being there. He loved me completely. Stupid me.
So what I’m asking should be fairly obvious.
I want you to go away.
I want you to slink back to Jackson or Tempe or Crystal Lake or wherever you came from, and I want you to do it as quietly as possible. No cameras or recording devices allowed. Don’t make a spectacle or big deal about it. I’ll do your press release and call all your people. I’ll tell your mom you’re already on your way.
You don’t have to consider the alternatives. I’m already there.