He took me golfing this weekend at the most exclusive club scattered with obscure old men worth millions. Dressed me up in special high performance shoes and a preppy polo. I didn't mean to beat him our first time out.
Later, we lunched with former Generals of currently Islamic states. Rousing discussion regarding the Shiites and the Sunnis ensued while they all hid in comfortable political asylum.
We ourselves took refuge in the glittering mecca of consumerism. Okay, the Mall. Thousands of dollars spent, we retreated to the castle in the sky armed with shiny shoe purchases.
"So, you're living the life?" they ask.
"No, I'm just playing make believe until I can convince him to hate me."
It's all so tiring, really.
Everyday he must reassure himself that I do in fact love him and want to be with him. I agree of course, while somewhere in the inside doubt creeps about, pinching, prodding and perforating.
Now, I've hidden myself in a cocoon of books buried deep inside a long forgotten library. I suppose it's escapism at its extreme.
I wonder sometimes, could I do this forever?
But like I often tell me parents, some days I loathe him and others love him. And what is so wrong with that?
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