Friday, August 1, 2014


Nights i search his pockets. It has become an unhealthy obsession. I seem to be deliberately seeking evidence of his double timing to feel that my worst misgivings are justified. It seems, as i frantically scour his toilette for traces of unfaithfulness, i am preempting my own fear or perhaps bringing it into being by conceptualizing it. 

So far i have not discerned any damning evidence. There are traces of lipstick and perfume scents but those are emanations of my own physiognomy ,rendered indistinctly olfactory but never entirely obliterated. It pleases me to thus encounter my being in the detritus of his daytime self. Possibly i am hard to shake off or so i would like to believe.

Which doesn't mean that a putative unimpeachable front may not conceal deeper infidelities. I am certain, though it is a hypothetical certainty, however rendered veracious by the general fickleness of men, given my own evidence from past relationships, that he is hiding something, some disagreeable fact that will spring up and strike me square in the face. I would not like to anticipate foreboding but circumstances precipitate an antecedent foreboding, even before facsimiles of it are conspicuous, thereby problematizing my belief in his goodness.

As i said earlier i am yet to find anything that crystallizes my suspicions. He may, alternately, be consummately putting up a front of innocence, to waylay me and belie my nightmares. But it isn't as though i would like not to believe. Rather, it is, as though, through a neurotic preconception of a indeterminate misdemeanor i am steeling myself against disappointment or complimenting myself for my perspicuity and sagaciousness.

So i check his pockets and encounter daily this musky perfume and lipsticked mnemonics of a person who resembles me yet is not me.

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