And then there are the moments of melancholia.
After an evening of playing with them and their girlfriends or wives. Playing my role of married-yet-husband-away, yet longing for touch, for taste, desire. And reading his emails throughout the course of the evening. Smiles masking the disappointment. The resentment at the inequality between my efforts and his.
And then the evening ends and we wave goodbye and I put them all to bed, like figurines in a dolls house. Each has his own place. I can orchestrate the events, yet when they are all tucked up in their beds, I am still alone. I can never lie there next to any one of them. I suppose that is the nature of being alive. At the end of the day, it is just you and the darkness.


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