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I was an only child until the age of 7. This was when my mother and father gave life to my sister who would from that moment on be the center of trouble and dismay within our household. She would be the one to get the suspensions, the DUI’s, the bad grades. She was the embodiment of trouble and immaturity. Then, I’d be the one to bail her out because wow—am I an amazing sister.
Even now, at the age of 32, her life riles her into a disparity that can’t be clawed out of. She’s been divorced twice already. This time to a man in his 50’s, do I even remember his name? If I sat on it for a while it would come back to me but as time goes on it gets buried deep into my long term memory. Matters very little however, he came and went in a flash and now she’s working on man number three. Not without effort though, she has been in my home, staying in our guestroom for the last 2 months attempting to figure out her next course of action. Found him in a brewery, he does paperwork or so she says. So basically, within this menial and sarcastic area of tragedy of a life she somehow latched onto another man twice her age, and she’s moving out to live with him.
I watched idly from the doorway as she stuffed her belongings into the purple suitcase that sat on the sheet-clad bed. There was an incomparable level of stress and uncertainty that laced the words exiting her mouth, just barely falling deaf on my preoccupied ears and due to the insensitivity that shaped my personality I failed to garner even the slightest ounce of sympathy. I’d always been told that I was cold, heartless—ruthless but never took it with a grain of rice. However this woman I was staring at, with her face puffy and red and her eyes gushing tears like an erupting geyser donated insight and truth to my cynicism. Her weakness coiled me, her doubt and lack of independence caused me to cringe so hard that instinctually, I covered my face with one hand. How could a woman be so weak? A woman I’m related to nonetheless, over a man.
“You just don’t know anything Evie,” That was the nickname she gave me before she could run. “I love him.”
I snorted through my nose absent-mindedly. Not lost on me was the fact that I’d given her an earful not 20 minutes before on how reckless and irrational she was being, admonishing her on how sling-shooting herself into another relationship was less-than-smart. She didn’t care though, as her mind had been made up. Now looking back at my earlier self I realize I may have belittled her a bit too much, letting slip that I’d always thought of her as the disgrace of our family.
“Laugh all you want!” She wiped her face again but fresh tears took their place. “Not everyone can be perfect like you, with your perfect husband and your perfect child and your perfect life with your perfect house and your perfect job!” She slammed her suitcase shut and slung it off the bed. “You’re too headstrong for your own good. Your pussy husband doesn’t even try to stand up to you. You’re a ball buster!” My sister lugged her suitcase around the bed and propped it against the door by my feet as she continued her tirade. I didn’t even need to put in effort to not retort, her words were meaningless to me.
“You with your stupid law degree and your sense of self-righteousness, I don’t need a lecture from someone who’s never even been in love before.” She dumped all the jewelry on the dresser into her purse without even trying to organize it.
I raised a questioning eyebrow. “Are you actually suggesting that I don’t love my husband?”
“I’m stating that you aren’t in love with that spineless little wimp.” She held her hands up defensively, but only for a brief moment. “But far be it from me to put a damper on your happy little suburban life. I know how coy and ruthless you lawyers can be.”
I sighed and rolled my eyes. She always finds a way to bring my law degree into an argument, over and over again. “Yes, Hazel I’m a lawyer—so what?” I shrugged. I received my law degree when I was 25 and started my own practice when I turned 30. I’m a boss in my own regards and I love it. Why? I didn’t allow my ridiculous obsession of the male gender path my way of living—that’s why. It’s called ‘being your own person’, and ‘taking initiative’. No male would ever be worth the trouble in my opinion. I’m much too smart for that kind of drama and weakness. Men, in my eyes were only a stepping stone to the path of happiness—they are by no means end game. Sure, I married young but it was so much easier that way. My husband was more than capable of handling himself and moving his life along just as quickly as I was. If only she could see this like I do…she is my sister after all. But even with the endless lectures in an attempt to make her see my side of things? Nothing.
Her voice was filled with anger and sadness when she said, defeated, “So, thank you for everything and take care.” I watched from the top of the stairs as she lugged her things down them and peeked out the curtain in my living room just as she güvenilir bahis hopped into her Mercedes and drove away. Of course she could have afforded to get her own apartment but I insisted she stay with family during her time of grief. Not very long lived was this grief, apparently. She was back on the horse far, far too quickly.
“For crying out loud.” I whispered to myself, crossing my arms as her car got farther and farther away from my line of sight. I nodded when it disappeared completely. “She’ll be back.”
I took a few steps to get to the couch and settled onto it, so exhausted. I rested my head on the back and propped my shoeless feet onto the coffee table. When I had elected to come home for a quick lunch the last thing I expected to encounter was what I did. A bubbly, jumping, bright eyed doe-like woman in her thirties, jumping up and down and squealing preposterous implications of love. There has to be a limit to how naïve a person can be. I’m sure that Hazel has long since passed that threshold. I am absolutely exhausted by the mere thought of having to explain this to my mother and father.
Sitting up more properly I begin to extend my hand, offering some semblance of comfort to the cold, empty room. “Mother, Father—You see…” I grunted and readjusted myself on the couch again, shaking my head. “Hazel moved out, she’s back on her rocker again…to a—degree.” My voice wavered.
“Dang it.” I muttered, resting back against the couch once again.
I flinched at the sound of a rapping at the front door and sighed before I pushed myself off the cushy surface. I’m not a very tall woman, just a little over 5’3, so every time I wanted to look through the peephole of my front door I had to strain my calves by pushing myself onto my tippy toes.
It was a delivery man. I pulled the door open and smiled brightly. “Evening.”
He held a package under his arm and it nearly slipped out when he saw me. “G-Good evening.” He stuttered a bit, seeming to lose his words. “Delivery for a…” He checked the box. “Finlay Scott?” I felt my brows scrunch a bit.
I used my hand to motion for him to give me the electronic signing device in his hand. “I’ll sign.” When he handed it to me I signed quickly and gave my thanks when he handed the small box over. He tipped his hat to me and jogged back down the stairs.
I closed the door and studied the small package in my hands, examining the weight and markings. Finlay ordered something online? There’s nothing illuminating about it, it’s just a brown box with the shipping label. I cringed, it better not be another graphics card. He’s a computer nerd or something like that. Finlay has this nasty habit of taking his computer apart and putting it back together again, and in that process he tends to take things out and put them in claiming that his ‘rig’ isn’t perfect yet.
Finlay’s my son by the way. A 19-year-old college student who’s studying chemical engineering (I think). He’s my greatest accomplishment really. Smart, talented, driven, athletic and handsome—everything a parent could ask for. He was the kind of kid that you could brag about, the kind that made you feel like you’ve accomplished something in life…created someone who will actually do something.
“The hell is this?” I mumbled to myself as I studied the package closer. I went up the stairs with the box still in my hand and jiggled the doorknob to my son’s bedroom. It was either locked or stuck. There was a problem with his bedroom door, see—sometimes it would stick in the hinge and refuse to open. Been meaning to get it fixed but it simply gets lost on me more often than naught. I then went into my system of checking which is which, I jangled the knob a few more times until it made that clicking sound. I then pulled it as hard as I could and twisted counter-clockwise and as I suspected it popped, and the door slowly glided open.
I moved into the abnormally clean space and sat the box down on his neatly made up bed. It’s bizarre that a package for Finn would come here considering he doesn’t quite live in this house as of now. He lives in the dorms at his university, about 3 miles away it was. Finn slept in this house on holidays, and he only visited when he had absolutely nothing else in the world to do. This is why I was feeling an innate suspicion; however I didn’t linger on this thought. I couldn’t because I was already 10 minutes late from my lunch break. So I pulled the door shut and made my way down the stairs, not even realizing how little consideration I had for my own curiosity.
Why is work so endless? I remember a time in my life where work was the highlight of my life. Now the menial efforts of a tired and forgotten old woman are slowly drifting away. Exercising strategy into my dull and tired life has become the most delicate thread of my existence. I get what my mother said to me all of those years ago ‘work will kill you’. As a türkçe bahis teenager I didn’t quite get it. Now at the I’m slowly dying age of 39, it’s clear as day. Time kills all things, including your sense of wonder and excitement for work among other things. Gosh, I want to be 20-something again. I want to be able to dance again, be fearless, re-experience life and maybe even make some different choices. I’m not the bitch that my subordinates believe me to be, I’m just a longing and worn out vessel.
“Yvonne? You’re spacing out.” Alec says as he places some scripts on my desk.
I exhale as I rub my temples. “What are these?” I ask, defeated.
“These are the depositions you asked for a couple of days ago.” Alec clarified before turning to leave my office. “Have fun.” His sarcastic grin spoke volumes to me.
“Alec,” He stops, turning to face me.
“Remember how I told you about my sister last month?” I ask.
He raises a brow, and then slowly nods his head. “Well,” I began. “She moved out of my a few days ago…”
He seemed distraught. “I don’t know yet if that’s a good or a bad thing.”
I sighed deeply. “She moved out because she found another man whose name I’ve already forgotten.”
Alec sucked in a breath. “Bad thing.”
“I’m telling you this because I need your advice.” I leaned back in my chair a bit and began fiddling with my fountain pen.
Alec extended his arm, encouraging me to indulge with him. Alec was a brutally honest person, which is why he was my secretary. He gave it to me straight, which is all that mattered in the grand scheme of things. I’d rather be told the truth and have my feelings crushed then be told a lie and never be able to trust you again. “I said that she was making herself look a bit…pathetic?”
He pursed his lips, but didn’t say a word. “Alec.” I chided, wringing the pen between my fingers.
“Did you say it in those exact words, Yvonne?”
With a grunt, I released the tension in my hands. “I may or may not have called a disgrace to our family name, and now she won’t answer my calls.”
He snorted. “I can’t imagine why.”
“Alec…” I warned. “I need answers.”
He brought his hands to the front of his body and crossed them over his broad chest. “Boss, you need to understand that your family is not a court case. No matter how difficult they prove to be, you can’t always speak your mind. It’s going to drive them away.”
“What she’s doing is barbaric, Alec. She’s presenting herself like a pig for slaughter to any suitor that points their attention her way.”
“Let her burn through the lines on her own.”
“She hasn’t spoken to me in almost a week, though. No text messages, no calls—nothing. What if…What if she’s hurt or something? What if she’s missing?” I start running through every horrible scenario in my head, looking for any reason to justify my meddling.
Alec only sighed. “Then I suppose you’ll just have to live with the last thing you said to your one and only sister, huh?” He then closed to door to my office, leaving my mouth hanging and speechless.
A bit overly dramatic, aren’t we? I rested my head in my hands a let out a huge sigh, trying not to lose my cool.
“What am I doing?” I said to no one.
Where to start? Ah, why not from the top. My name is Yvonne Scott, I’m 39 years old and I own a law firm in west Oregon. My hobbies include sulking over how short I am, eating bonbons and watching re-runs of The Golden Girls in my pajamas. My husband also doesn’t arouse me anymore. He can’t make me cum no matter what he does. I used to think I was vain; ‘How could he do this to me?!’ this was around the time when I was convinced that I was the center of his universe. Things are clearer now though, whatever magic that may or may not have been there…it’s gone now.
“It happens to every marriage.” My mother promised over the phone. “Dry your eyes.” I’d just spilled out a decade’s worth of angst to her and I’m sure my face looked a mess. I don’t normally exude this much desperateness, but that night I’d had one too many glasses of white wine and a fist full of oxycotin. There was nothing to hold me back; it came tumbling from my lips like bile.
So it’s simply…okay to not be sexually or even emotionally attracted to my spouse anymore? My face was scrunched up so much from crying that I felt it fall with forced indifference.
“Alright.” I deadpanned because I’m an emotional warrior. Since that day, I haven’t shown the tiniest bit of empathy towards my own dejectedness. Who cares if I’m in a loveless marriage, I knew what I was signing up for the moment I met Charles. He wasn’t exactly a sex magnet, the guy. More like a…Sesame Street character? He was handsome, of course, but only in the traditional sense. He had no prowess, no mystery, and no stigma. He was about as complicated as an equilateral triangle, and as of now…I’m fine with it.
I’m also a very good liar, which is why I’m the best lawyer in town.
I güvenilir bahis siteleri also loved classical music, or at least I thought I did until my husband tried to play it to get me in the mood a few weeks ago. “Beethoven always gets me going.” He said as he swiveled his hips and then pumped them in tune with The 5th and scurried over to me, attempting to be sexy. I cried myself to sleep that night, too. I haven’t listened to any orchestra music since.
I believe that’s all there is to me, really. I’m not exactly extraordinary. I’m not the most beautiful, not the most exciting, either. My friends call me the wet blanket. I feign offense while silently agreeing, taking pride in the fact. Is it wrong to be predictable? If so that’s fine. It means that I’m not so easily swayed and I like that attribute. Have I ever cheated? Nope. Not a lot of other attributes I take pride in…my hips maybe? They’re kind of nice, I suppose. My figure is impressive for a woman my age thanks to the empty days I spend pumping it at my local gym.
List of things that people never say:
My simple suburban life is so exciting.
End of list.
“I’m done for the day.” I tell Alec as I pass his desk with my belongings in hand.
He looks up from his computer to me, shocked. “It’s only 12.”
“Is it? I didn’t notice.” I mumbled sarcastically as I continued walking. I need sleep and possibly death…was what I thought to myself as I ducked into my Porsche and revved out of the parking garage at my firm.
As I approached my home I noticed a car parked in the driveway. I squinted my eyes a bit to get a better look, even with my glasses I was a bit near sighted, not blind thankfully. It was Finn’s jet black range rover that my over-compensating husband bought for his high school graduation.
“What on Earth.” I whispered to no one. I parked my car in front of the house, pouting all the while. I hated parking in the street. Why didn’t he pull into the garage?
My keys made that familiar teeth shattering clanking noise in the ceramic bowl on the table by the doorway when I tossed them in there. I pulled my purse farther up my shoulder and looked around the large, quiet expanse of my home. The living room to my right was desolate, as was the kitchen down the hall. Finally, I gave in and called out “Finn? Sweetie?” The heels of my shoes clacked beneath me against the hardwood as I headed towards the staircase.
There was a lot of thumping upstairs before I heard a door open and shut. Next thing I know a head pops around the corner from the top of the stairwell. I stared up at my teenage son who was also staring back at me, a confused look on his face. “You’re home early.” He pointed out.
I began slumping the length of the stairwell, holding the brass railing as I did in fear I might topple over with exhaustion. “I have a splitting migraine. I need rest and painkillers.” I said tiredly.
“Are you alright?” He asked when I reached the top.
I glanced at him briefly. He was looking back at me with those quiet blue eyes that mimicked my husband’s to a T. In fact, everything about him reflected my husband—his nose, his eyes, his mouth, the way he walked and even the little ticks that he had with his body language—all my husband. He looked exactly the way Charles did when he was younger. The only thing about him that we really shared was that calm and passive demeanor. I’ve always been extremely shy and quiet, but my mind is like an oven—burning and filled with unspoken temptation.
He also had my auburn hair, but you can’t tell anymore, he’d dyed it so many times and right now it was a dark brunette that looked amazing in contrast to his blue eyes. Or at least better than the bleach blonde it was when he was in his rebellious phase during high school
“I just told you I have a headache, so not really, no.” I sighed as I passed by him.
“Do you need anything?” He asked.
I spun around quickly. “Finn why are you here? Don’t you have class today? It’s Tuesday.”
He seemed surprised by my outburst, but shook it off before checking his wrist watch. “Not until 2…” He said softly.
I sighed, nodding my head. “You hungry?” I asked. “I’ll cook you something.”
“I’m fine, Mom. Don’t worry about it.” He insisted and I was quietly happy that I didn’t have to cook.
“K,” I said simply and headed for my bedroom. I kicked off my heels and began unbuttoning my blouse, all the while watching myself in the mirror. My hair was slipping out of the nice bun I’d wrapped it in just a few hours ago. I was so unbelievably tired and felt like I’d just run a marathon…which is insulting because I couldn’t do that even if I wanted to. Seriously…there is nothing that could ever convince me to run a marathon. I’m a deeply unhappy person, and I’m sure that physically exasperating me with straining elongated exercise like that would not only kill me, but also kill me.
After a brisk shower I pulled on my usual loungewear, which was basically just a pair of sweatpants and a thick long-sleeved t-shirt. My husband has bought me so many silk nightgowns but God do I hate the way they feel against my skin. I prefer the touch of cotton over anything…it made me feel calm.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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