She loves him. She loves him so dearly, but will it ever be enough? She stands there, sadness, pain, ranting.
“So what?” she screams, voice shrill and terrified, terrifying. “I’m never going to be enough, am I? I’m just not cutting it, is that what you want to say?”
She can hear him mumbling but it’s not enough, never is it enough, it’s not enough because she can feel it. She can feel it and it’s crushing her. She has, somewhere deep down, perhaps, known all along.
“It doesn’t matter that you care about them too, fine, I’ll deal with that, I know I have to. But how dare you? How dare you!”
She can see them, standing somewhere behind him and one or two behind her, always there, forever present. She can’t imagine that they never have a better place to be, nowhere else to pass time than next to him, by him, with him and never with her. She is the intruder, the shooter, the separator. She is the bad guy and she doesn’t know how long she can take it.
“I love you. You’ve got to know I love you more than anything, anything! But when I married you I didn’t realize that you came with a package!”
She can hear him, talking, explaining, saying it’s her fault and not his, telling– always telling, never or at least no longer talking to, just telling – her that she has got to realize they are his friends and always have been. She hears the words explaining they always have been and she chokes.
“I know they are your friends. But what I don’t get is why the fuck I got married to them too!!”
She is furious and shows it and can hear the guys behind her, asking, talking, trying to sooth her, soothe her. She almost cries in frustration; has she not reason for anger, have they not heard her at all? She finally sighs. She silences. She quits. She says:
“Fine. Fine. I get it. I should have gotten it long ago.
“Goodbye.”
femte november tvåtusentio
femte november tvåtusentio
