I offer no apologies for what I did. That’s the difference between her and I. She curses me, drags my name through the mud, and looks back on those days with pure reprehension as if she didn’t do it with me. But I don’t care. No matter what, an affair takes two.
If you ask her she’ll give you a thousand excuses about how she was in a dark place and then like a devil I appeared at her side and tempted her to the darkness of infidelity with my silver tongue. She won’t tell you how it happened, how often it happened, or how she kept coming back for more, but she’ll tell you how I spoke sweet nothings into her ear until she magically found herself in my arms. She’ll tell you she knew she what she was doing was wrong, but she couldn’t help herself. Like Eve she couldn’t walk the path of righteousness with a snake like me on her shoulder. That’s right, I’m the monster and she’s the victim. She’ll cry and beg for forgiveness, always seeking a pardon but never punishment. That’s the kind of person she is, wrongs the world but never at fault. I can’t blame her, No one wants to be a monster, even if they are.
She’s complicated, but I’m simple. I spend my days surrounded by big white walls doing a job that a robot will be able to do in a few years, listening to people I hate say things that annoy me, and drowning the omnipresent malaise in alcohol of the highest caliber and patiently waiting for it to kill me. Needless to say, I live at the bar. That’s where we met, where we talked about all kinds of stupid shit like why peanuts are called peanuts despite having nothing to do with peas or whether pineapples were a type of apple. If you can’t tell from the riveting discussion we were pretty into each other and we started hanging out outside of the bar. Romantic places like in hotel rooms and my place. The woman was a lioness in bed, I thought I was doing it wrong since I woke up aching in the morning. She told me she was married, but by that point she was a bright spot in my dim life. Why should I care about her husband? What did the sanctity of their marriage do for me? fucking nothing and it clearly wasn’t doing much for her either. As far as we were concerned her husband didn’t exist while we were together.
It was bliss for about 5 months until she dropped the big news that she was pregnant. But she didn’t tell me, I found out when reporters showed up to my house asking me why I was banging some politician’s wife and if the baby was mine. Most people would be swept away in that kind of shit storm, but I’m too simple for that so I shut the door and became the embodiment of the fifth amendment. What does it matter if I’m the father? What does it matter how I feel about her husband or how he feels about me? It’s her marriage not mine. I was just the other man.
It was our affair. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but it was good for me. In my trash life it was something I enjoyed. If that makes me a monster, then call me Frankenstein because I don’t care. I offer no apologies for what I did, and I don’t seek any atonement either because I only did what I felt was best for me. I don’t hate her because in her own way she did too. Let’s be honest, if you were in either of our shoes you’d have done the same, because deep down inside we’re all monsters, and monsters cheat.