A Different Kind of Bondage
There is a series of books simply titled “[Insert Country] Girls About Town.” American, Scottish, Irish…what have you. They’re full of short stories from female authors of the highlighted country, and I have the three I mentioned above.
One of them had a story that included an idea I’ve felt I related to a bit more than I’d like to admit. I was looking for the passage today, and found it lingering in the “Scottish Girls About Town” book, being far too sophisticated for American chick lit, of course.
“Later, it turned out he was being comforted by several other women besides me. So that was my heart smashed all over again; I hated him then and wished him dead. But the thin line that pulled from his heart to mine could not be severed so easily, and I forgave and forgave, and pretended I was being adult (life is too short, people are starving in Africa and blowing themselves up in the Middle East, many other spurious and cliched rationalizations).”
From “Your Time is Up” by Tania Kindersley.
This string around my heart alternately tugs and slackens; the entire time being constructed of something I am completely unable to cut through. I’ve tried all I know how to do but at the end of the day, it’s still just me sitting here without him. Me and this fucking string.
