matamoras

When we dated, he and Mark used to play for hours. Hours when I didn't feel bored or neglected or somewhere else.

I used to sit on that worn tweed couch where he and his ex used to fuck and I loved listening. He could sing, really sing when no one was around. I think Mark and I may be the only ones who know this.

He can still do it, still catch him sometimes, belting out a note no one else knows he can hit. Still catch him harmonizing with old gospel songs, or outsinging Sebastian Bach.

I miss the threesomes, oh they weren't sexual. It was the three of us and we'd get indian food and talk. Mark wasn't going to sell out, I wasn't going to sell out and He sure as hell wasn't going to sell out. My God, he was barely passing. Mark was a financial advisor who quit to work part-time at the children's library and write music. I like looking at his online profile for company. I'm in beauty school and I spend most of my days reading, wishing I could write again. He works for a major newspaper in the area putting ad layouts together.

It's funny, I'd never have pictured it this way. It's sad. Sometimes he looks at me and seems to wait for something great to come out of my mouth. I say nothing. Sometimes I look at him and feel bad because I must be so difficult to live with.

I miss the tweed couch and my spiky black hair. I miss our ridiculous conversations. I miss our stupid home movies. I miss Mark. I miss who he is when he was with Mark. Sometimes I joked that I was Yoko.
Somehow I got in their way.