TAMARA

ᥫ᭡

I lean back into the couch, legs tucked under me, and flick the lighter with a slow click, dragging deep on the cigarette between my fingers.

Smoke clouds around me, thin gray tendrils curling like the thoughts in my head. I exhale, eyeing the half-full glass of wine on the table——deep red, like blood in the candlelight, a gift from Marcus himself. It's a rare blend; a bitter, earthy taste, which burns like hell. But it's just perfect.

I'm a few sips in, just enough to feel the edges of things go hazy. Just enough to feel the weight lift off my shoulders.

I unlock my phone, thumb hovering over Instagram. One quick check, I tell myself. Just one. But I know it's a lie even as I tap through the app, and pull up Nadine's profile like I've done every night this week.

@TheeMrsBlackwell

I scoff, clicking on the display photo, like it hasn't been engraved in my memory by now. My eyes travel down to the first photo on her feed, taken two weeks ago. In it, she's sitting on a flight of stairs, smiling smugly at the camara like someone who'se got it all.

And I guess she does.

She sure as hell has got the man.

My man...

I wonder who took the pic?

Was it him?

As the thought pops into my head, I see his comment below the pic.

I snort.

Wife material mi rass...!

Hating the way seeing him comment that under her post makes me feel, I quickly scroll past it with a huff.

My jaw tightens as I continue to scroll, each post stabbing me with a sharp pang.

My thumb hovers over the ones which beckon to me the most.

Like the one I'm looking at now. Here, she is decked in a white sundress, on the beach, Marcus, in matching colours, grinning beside her, looking at her like she's gold.

The one below it, posted four weeks ago, makes my heart skip a beat. It's a photo of them, seemingly at the beach, her arms wrapped around Marcus' neck as she pulls his head back to meet her and kisses him.

More than the fact that she has her disgusting lips on his, what really grinds my gears is the diamond ring on her finger, glaring at me, confirming his statement up top. Indeed, she's wife material. His wife material.

Likewise, I roll my eyes and scroll past.

In another picture, they are at some family-gathering looking event, again in matching outfits, smiling for the camera--kids running around, people laughing, in the background; all the things he swore he didn't want when he was tangled up in my sheets, with his dick deep inside me.

He always said he didn't want the "family man" life, told me I was a breath of fresh air, something "real", something "different".

But I guess that was all a lie, wasn't it?

He's just like every other man-playing with fire until it blazes out of control for him, and then crawling back to his safe little world, leaving everything else to burn.

Tuh.

I take another drag from the cigarette stick, feeling the nicotine kick in, buzzing through my veins, dulling the ache but sharpening my focus.

My eyes fleet over her username for the second time.

TheeMrsBlackwell.

Thee eno.

Thee.

What does she have that I don't?

Sure, Nadine's pretty, but I've got looks too. Sure a that. And more ass. Mi sure mi pussy good too. And I'm younger, educated...more fun--I know how to make a man feel "alive".

At least, that's what Marcus told me each time I was riding his dick.

So why didn't he pick me?

If I was all of those things...

Why did he pick her over me?

I sigh, clearing my throat of the lump which settles there.

My eyes settle back on the pic on the screen.

Unless, there's really more to it than that.

I stare at the woman's face, unlike me, she's got the whole package; wife, mother, homemaker.

While I guess I was just a moment of excitement, the thrill he'd dip into, knowing full well that she's the one he wants to build a life with. The one he'd always choose over me, no matter what sweet words he whispered in my ear, in between sheets, behind closed doors.

I sip some more wine, scrolling further down, back through the months. Every photo feels like a taunt--like she's showing off what I'll never have. I swipe through the comments, heart sinking when I see Marcus has left little heart emojis and "I love you" comments all over her page.

I sink deeper into the couch. The cigarette burns slowly between my fingers, trailing smoke that floats lazily around me, thickening the air with every drag.

I feel my blood boil with each picture I pass, but I don't stop myself from scrolling further.

One last scroll.

This time, I stop at a selfie she took with Marcus, his arm wrapped around her waist, their smiles wide and obnoxious.

I scoff, tapping on the photo to zoom in. Despite the fact that the photo has been posted months ago, there's something almost smug about her face, like she knows I'm watching. As if she knows I'm sitting here, losing my mind, while she lives my life--the one I thought I was on the verge of having.

I take a big gulp of wine, letting it burn down my throat, hot and sharp.

Marcus is a pussy, that's what he is.

How could he just...drop me, like I'm nothing?

One minute, he's at my place, telling me he needs me, fucking the life out of me even...and the next, he's posting lovey-dovey garbage with her, like I was never even there.

It's like I was just a blip in his perfect little story, something to be erased the second it got inconvenient.

Definitely a pussy move.

Coward!

The caption below the pics add salt to my wound: Will always be his number one choice.

"Yeah, well, good for you, Nadine," I mutter, clicking off her feed and tapping through her story highlights, watching clip after clip of their so-called happy life.

I roll my eyes, but something in my chest twists tight.

How can she just...does she even know?

Does she even suspect the nights he was with me, spilling secrets in my bed?

The moments I was sucking his dick?

The times said dick was buried deep inside my pussy?

Surely she wouldn' a own him up so...!

I tap through her pictures faster, my thumb moving on its own, my breath quickening. She's everywhere. Smiling in every photo, with him, with their kids, at family gatherings, on vacations. It's like her happiness is on display just to spite me.

Another drag from my cigarette, and I blow the smoke at the screen, imagining it clouding up that polished grin of hers. I can't look away, though. It's like scratching a wound just to feel something, anything; painful but satisfying.

Soon, the wine in my glass is gone, the bottle nearly empty, but it holds enough for me to pour another glass.

I scroll through each highlight. Rolling my eyes each time I swipe past a picture which brings their fairy-tale to life.

I'm annoyed.

At Her.

At Marcus.

At myself for how long I've been the fool on the side, waiting for him to leave her. It irritates the fuck out of me.

Every photo, every caption, every story, is like a taunt, as if she's telling me: I'll always be the one he comes home to.

I toss my phone onto the couch, staring at it like it has betrayed me.

I know I should stop torturing my fucking self like this, but I can't.

It has become a routine now: something I've been doing ever since Marcus stopped entertaining me. He no longer answers my calls, nor responds to my texts. His interactions at the office are also strictly cordial.

It's driving me up the fucking walls!

I still can't believe it.

He chose her.

He really did.

And it hurts.

Like hell.

I want her to know what I know. I want her to feel what I'm feeling right now--this boiling frustration, this urge to tear down and trample on that perfect little life she has no qualms flaunting for the world to see.

You wouldn't even know...

But instead, I sit here, in my semi-dark, empty living room, staring at the TV on the wall--not caring for what's playing on the screen, it's background noise at this point, anyways.

I take another swig of the last of the wine, letting it burn my tingling throat. My mind replays all the pics I've just seen, like a broken tape stuck on rewind.

I've been scrolling through her photos for days, watching their fake display of affection like it's a reality show, like one more look will make me feel something other than... empty. But no, every post just fills me with more anger, more jealousy.

I finally admit it. I'm jealous.

The urge to pick up the phone from where it rests beside me on the couch itches my skin.

I feel like a crackhead.

A dumb, fidgety, jealous, fucking delusional crackhead.

I succumb to the urge. Eventually.

My phone shakes in my hand, and for a second, I think about DMing her.

Just one message.

Something to make her wonder, to plant if even one single seed of doubt.

I want her to lie awake, staring at the ceiling, picturing me with him. Every. Single. Time. Picturing us in the most risqué positions, imaginable.

I want her to feel this ache, this twist in her chest that keeps me up every damn night.

I click on the 'message' button at the top of her profile.

But then I stop.

I know that if I send something, if I break that perfect image they have going for them, he'll just hate me for it.

More than he already does...

Anger wells up in my chest, and I swallow it down with more wine, letting the bitterness wash over me.

Bringing my hand down, I refresh the page and stare at her latest photo, posted just now--her and Marcus at some fancy restaurant, looking happy as a lark.

Despite the smile on her face, I can see the sadness in her eyes. Woman to woman.

I wonder if she knows.

I wonder if she has any idea who he was sneaking off to see every time he left her alone at night.

I wonder if she'd care.

If she'd look at me like I'm nothing...or if she'd hate me the way I'm starting to hate her.

But it's not her fault, I remind myself.

It's him.

It's all him.

He's the one who made promises he couldn't keep, who played me like a fool. And still... I can't stop myself from wanting him. I can't stop myself from wanting what she has, from wishing I was the one in that photo, smiling back at him like he was my world.

And him looking at me with the look he gives her.

Like I was enough.

I scoff again, then hiccup.

His words roll over me: 'It's not conducive to the level of professionalism we want in the office.' Or whatever the fuck he'd said that day in his office.

I snort at the audacity.

Now him waa be professional?

After him fuck out mi hole in every which way?

All of a sudden him come to him sense and see say it nuh professional?

"Fuck you and your professionalism, Marcus!"

I shake my head, laughing loudly, stopping as soon as tears start rolling down my face.

I don't understand why I'm crying, but I can't stop the streams from flowing no matter how hard I swat at them with the sleeve of my sweater.

I hiccup again, mid cry.

And again.

And again.

Until my throat starts scratching me.

Stubbing the cigarette bud that's left, into the ashtray, I get up and walk over to the sink. Placing the empty wine glass inside the sink, I turn the tap on and splash some water on my face.

There's a mirror on the side of the cabinet, and I catch my reflection in it.

The woman who stares back at me is alien.

This isn't me.

I'm better than this.

Never did I ever think, in my twenty-five years on this earth, I'd have a man making me go nuts like this.

Especially one who, at this point, clearly can never be mine.

I sigh, feeling used.

Feeling miserable.

Feeling...ugh.

After turning the tap off, I reel off a piece of paper hand towel and wipe my hands, before grabbing a larger piece to pat my face.

Sniffling softly, I wobble back to the couch and collapse onto it.

Just as do so, I lurch forward, clasping my hands over my mouth and springing to my feet.

They carry me in a hurried, stumbling mess to the nearest bathroom. Before I can think, I'm on the floor, cradling the toilet, spewing the contents of my stomach into the porcelain bowl.

It stays like that for about five minutes before I get any ease.

When I do, it's only enough for me to roll over and plop down on my bottom, on the cold, tiled floor.

I can smell the pungent odour of vomit which makes my stomach coil.

Wiping at my lips with the sleeve of my shirt, I pull it over my head, hoping I'll get enough strength to move to the shower next.

I feel pathetic.

I feel hurt.

I feel icky.

I feel sick to my stomach.

My mind flashes to Marcus and, somehow, deep down, I wish he could be here to comfort me right now.

I scoff bitterly at the thought.

I know he won't. He made it clear that it's over.

I know I'm fucking delusional for thinking otherwise.

And I hate myself for it.

I hate him for it.

Feeling the soreneșs spread throughout my limbs, I groan and lean my head against the toilet tank.

"Marcus Blackwell..." I mutter below my breath.

You're going to pay for hurting me.

I swear.

...I swear as there is a God who liveth.