by Ali Torrelli
(1/31/01)
She's doing it again. She's stealing from me.
Like a cat burglar in the night, her nimble fingers are lifting what is rightly mine. Incredibly, she just keeps helping herself. Is there no remorse?
She lovingly rubs her finger over the merchandise. A small, raspy breath escapes from her lips. I am forced to lie awake listening to this in the night. Without looking, I know she is caressing her treasure with reverence, tracing its outline carefully.
I clench my jaw and force myself to focus on the ceiling as she moans almost imperceptibly. My mind asks me, "Isn't she mine? What gives her the right?" Yet she continues to finger the goods. And she does so until her curiosity is finally sated and her need for exploration is done.
I wait. But her desire for me never mounts. Her breathing is even once again. My satisfaction is not coming. The anger of that hardens me. I want her need for myself. I want her desire to be for me, not some dream lover. I want to take her and know she's mine. But again tonight, like almost every other night, her desire is elsewhere. And now her stolen satisfaction lies in a self-made pool of relief on the sheet next to me.
She is stealing from me. I believe it is time to prosecute.
