Play, You...Play Me
Sun, 14 Feb 2016
Mmm...this is nice; a roaring log fire, my favourite tune. Unexpected, at the very least; no...don’t stop. I’ve missed that tender touch from those fingertips of yours. You’ve not been in the mood lately, I know. No explanation required; the music speaks for itself.
So – that’s it then, with him, I mean; couldn’t help noticing the door slam. Hope he’s gone for good this time. I heard it all you know...captive audience that I am, which only beggars the question why you let the bastard in. Good job you got the locks changed, or else he’d have been back sooner. Excuse me, won’t you, being so blunt, it’s just... we are soul-mates, after all, I know you better than you do yourself...even what you’re thinking.
Look, don’t let him pressure you into a divorce. He’s got all the time in the world. You haven’t, and she’s the one who’s pushing him, of course. More fool her though...your double, your stand-in; even down to that tiny mole on your chin. Slightly older, perhaps, and nowhere near as pretty; a peroxide blonde at that. Did you see those roots?
Boy, is she going to be gutted if she wants a family...barring a miracle. It’s sad, almost; the way he genuinely believes those lies he tells himself. Walter Mitty’s got nothing on him. How could he be so heartless; accuse you, in front of her, of being to blame? OK – so your radiation treatment did put pay to any chance of the patter of tiny feet, it’s true; academic though...seeing as he’s infertile in the first place. How many sperm counts does it take to convince him for Christ’s sake?
Forgive me, but I still can’t believe he had the gall to move her in here. You were so afraid of losing him, you agreed. Love is blind, and in your case, obviously deaf too. Turned the other cheek when he asked where his future was, stuck with a wife who didn’t have one? Whatever happened to, ‘in sickness and in health, till death us do part’?
And so the stage was set, and it was curtains up on this cosy little threesome; you, the star of the show, playing the long-suffering, terminally ill wife, and she, your replacement – being groomed for when it was her turn to take the leading role. I would often try to second guess, which one he would ‘choose’ on any given night.
Sometimes, it spoke for itself. Those violent rows they had in the small hours, then I’d hear the floorboards creak as he walked out of their room into yours.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not faulting you, not for a second. God, if anyone needed solace, you did, especially when the morphine wouldn’t work and you felt like climbing the walls. Sometimes, even I wasn’t any help...the pain that bad.
And then came your unexpected remission which put a spanner in the works, big style; both anticipating with relish, your sad demise in a month, or two at the most. A year later, you’re still here, and hence her ultimatum. He could either divorce you, once and for all, or go find himself another understudy.
As a matter of interest, why did you let him have those photos? The object of today’s visit, quite plainly. Your ‘round the world’ trip of a lifetime...a myriad of exotic harbours you down-anchored in, and all the while she was there too...waiting in the wings...making sure, of course, she kept a discrete distance from the camera lens, for the most part, at least. What would friends and family, and his business colleagues, have said if they’d known his ‘bit on the side’ was accompanying you both on your very last fling. Not only that, but actually financed, by your good self, which beggars belief.
Hardly what one expects from a high ranking executive in a government sponsored organisation... or even an ex-nurse, as he was, who’d climbed the N.H.S. ladder to far higher echelons...the latter, strangely enough, true of you both; you, yourself initally an RGN who became a full-blown medical lecturer. You never let it go to your head though, and a true Sagittarian born, your philosophy ever being, a good archer should always have another arrow in their quiver.
Can’t get my head around it; the more I reflect, the more bizarre it gets. One could write a book, except it would be considered too far-fetched.
That husband of yours might live in cloud cuckoo-land, but where money’s concerned his feet are firmly planted on terra firma. He was gleefully rubbing his hands together the day you received that golden-handshake courtesy of your ex-employer; every penny of it yours to finance said trip...and, of course, that Rolex he conned you into buying for him, and throughout it all she freeloaded; cashed in her ticket to ride and when they’d bled your coffers dry, between them, he walked out on you...two weeks before Christmas. Timing is all, and I should know. Say...where are you going? Now don’t go getting all tearful on me. Can’t bear it when you cry. Always feel so helpless.
Come back over here and sit down; blow your nose and wipe those red eyes. You are still so very beautiful, despite what he told you. Beauty is way more than skin deep – a cliché, but nonetheless true. Mind you...you could do with putting on the odd pound, here and there...you’re as light as a feather, to coin a phrase, and those cheeks have lost their roses, but nothing a stiff brandy can’t put right.
How I’ve missed you. Instinctively though, I knew you couldn’t resist for long. Your hands always said it all; words were superfluous, then as now. You can hammer these “heart-strings” as hard as you please. Oh, and don’t worry about the squeaky pedals...or the odd wrong note here and there...in need of tuning, and a spot of oil; even baby-grands need a little TLC, as time goes by.
Play, you. Play me. Please? After all, the heart asks pleasure, first.