She keeps asking why, and I wish she would stop. Why why why? And I don't have an answer for her. Not a good one, anyway. I tried to tell her, just like I've always tried to tell everyone.
You're such a bastard, she tells me through a face full of tears. That. That right there is what I've always tried to tell her. When she was telling me how sweet I was, when she was telling me how great I was. When she was telling me what a great boyfriend I was, and I always responded, No. I'm not.
Some of them think that you're being modest. Some of them think that you're trying to adhere to an image. Some of them don't pay enough attention to listen.
But I've warned them all. All the people who love me, I've tried to tell them.
And they never believe me, not until this moment, when they're crying and wiping away the runny snot that always ruins dramatic moments like this, and they're asking over and over again, why, why, why?
That's when it hits them. The answer to their own question.
One girl called me Satan, but I think she got it wrong. Most of them call me either a prick or a bastard. I don't know why, but it's something I've noticed over the years. Some call me a heartless asshole. One time, I was called a very bad person. That one made me laugh. She never cursed, not even when I broke her heart. But when I laughed, that's when she called me a scum sucking goat fucker, and that made me laugh even harder. She ended up smashing a brass ashtray into my face, that's why the scar right here.
Usually, I don't laugh. Usually, I just stand there, feeling stupid. Letting them vent. Giving them closure. I hate it, but I know it's coming.
Each time I cheat, each time I lie, each time I cross a line that I shouldn't be crossing. I know I'll get caught. Hell, I probably want to be caught, or I wouldn't be doing it in the first place. I know what waits at the end of the road, and as much as I hate it, I hate pretending to be a good guy even more.
This time around, what happened was, I got caught with another woman.
Did I love her? That was the first question I was asked after getting busted. Standing there in the hallway, my boxer shorts failing monumentally at hiding the erection, I should be in there screwing my brains out, but instead, I'm out here, answering stupid questions.
Of course I don't love her.
How long has this been going on?
I don't have a watch, so I have to guess. Like, thirty minutes? Thirty five?
I get slapped, and I realize that I didn't understand the question.
How long have you been cheating, asshole?
Since I learned how.
That one doesn't get me slapped, and I wonder why. Usually, that one gets me slapped. But that's my answer, every time they ask.
That's when she starts asking why.
I never have a good answer.
Is it because I was bored? Unhappy? Is there something wrong with her?
All I can tell her is that I don't know. Maybe it's none of those things, maybe it's all of them. I did it because that's what I do.
I do it because life is too short to pretend forever, and I'm too lazy. I do it because I can, because I wanted to.
I don't tell her any of that, but I think she can sense it, because that's when she answers her own question. That's when she tells me I'm such a bastard.
That's when I tell her I know. That's when I tell her I tried to tell you.
She looks like she might slap me again, but instead, she wipes her face and says I loved you.
Did you ever love me?
Yeah, but mine's broken.
No, I don't think my heart. My love.
She doesn't say anything else, then. Just turns around and walks down the hallway, around the corner. I hear the front door slam.
I should go lock it--sometimes they come back in, not quite finished. I shrug and go back into the bedroom.
She's smoking a cigarette and looking bored, and she tells me that almost ruined the mood. I step out of my boxer shorts and she says that's better.