I’ll be honest. I’ve conned you. You don’t realise but you only want me because daddy said no. The scar on my chin excites you, and the cut on my nose is an invitation; destruction equates to sex in some people’s heads, and lucky for me you’re some people.
I won’t divorce you. Unless I’ll gain from it, in which case it’ll be done in seconds. I’ll be the one to execute it.
You’re too young. Your hair’s the wrong colour. I’ve had women, paid for the privilege, clawed my way from basement apartments, post rooms. You don’t know how much my seat cost, what they pay for consultations.
But this marriage will last. It’s the match for me. Expect separate rooms though and fights.
I have more power than a prime minister. When your wife dresses in front of you there is no reservation, no thought popping, gut feeling that undressed might be better. That some things happen twice, more.
I’ve touched your wife’s neck in public and I’ve purposefully shamed you. I’ve ______ her. She waits outside my house now, speaks audibly at newspaper stands, flower carts, begs me to untie, unhook her. But I buy flowers for somebody else and your wife turns soap shades, curtain drapes. She offers me trades but I’ve had her, already.
Like any politician I have monetary goals, sacrifice popularity; who needs general consensus when you have a clutch of women, each with another influence?
Eventually, there is no choice at all, no decision leads to love and if it does it’s a desperate scrabbling, an embarrassing slog at a life you bring home dirt from. So I ____ your daughter.