 |
Confessions of a Woman in Love
They say a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. When I first met him at work, that’s when I knew. The way he made the butterflies flutter in my stomach whenever I saw him, the way his smile made me almost melt whenever it was directed toward me, I knew I was in love with him and I wanted, no, needed to spend the rest of my life with him. It didn’t concern me that he already had a wedding band on his finger. I didn’t care about his wife, only him. So when I found out he left work in the same direction I did, I jumped at my chance to carpool. The carpool led to better things. After a few weeks, I invited him for dinner. When he accepted, I cooked an authentic Italian meal, as I had learned it was his favorite kind of food. However, when he finished eating, he merely thanked me for the delicious meal and went home to his wife, despite my pleas for him to stay a while to relax. And so I began to make another plan.
They say a way to a man’s heart is through his groin. On the way home from work on Friday, I invited him to dinner, as was our new routine. Only, this time, he would have a special dessert. After I had made dinner, I changed into my most alluring lingerie. He stared at me, jaw dropped, as I served the meal. All throughout dinner, he complimented me, mostly on my appearance, but also on certain aspects of my personality. One of his compliments was about my tendency to go after things I wanted. It was then that I kissed him. That simple, yet passionate kiss led to a very good night. Soon, every Friday, after we ate a quick meal, we had sex as many times as we could go in one night. Eventually, we had had sex in every room in my home in every position possible with every one of his fetishes involved. This took a few months, and, since I was so willing to give myself to him, I thought I would finally hear those three words I cared so much to hear. But he never said them. Every Friday morning, around four, he would step out of my shower, having cleaned himself of any evidence he had been to my home, and leave, not even bothering to say good-bye, let alone those three words I longed to hear. And so I began to formulate my best plan.
They say a way to a man’s heart is through his ribcage. I have found this to be the most effective route. That one Friday night, after we had sex, but before he began to doze, I ran to the kitchen. I took up my sharpest, biggest cleaver and ran back to the bedroom. I smiled warmly at him, lying in my bed, with his eyes closed. His heart belonged to me, not his wife, as he would have liked everyone to believe. I was only going to take what was mine. As I stepped closer, he opened an eye and smiled when he saw I had something behind my back. I told him to close his eyes again, and he obeyed. After handcuffing his wrists and ankles to my bedposts, I straddled him, held my cleaver high above my head, and came down as hard as I could. He jolted in bed, trying to get out from under me, but I wouldn’t let him, and he soon stopped moving. His blood splattered my face as I grabbed his ribs and tore them apart. I held his still-beating heart in the palm of my hand and tore it out. I gingerly cradled it in my bloodied arms, and continued to do so until I saw the police outside my home on Sunday, at which point I decided to devour his heart, so it would remain mine forever. When I met his widow, her eyes red and swollen with grief, and she asked me why I didn’t just kill her instead, I answered that she wasn’t the one I cared about.
|
 |
Reply
