I kissed someone else. And any actual feeling which wasn’t a ploy was a willing casualty. And, the family you’re from, you better than anyone understand what compromise is: a daily occurrence, not a prison sentence because even they eventually end, mostly.
Months later, once you’ve fucked my friends and I, yours, when you’d think it too late to try you ask, “What if?” and the boyfriend box with your name on it which I loft-shoved, barely saved from setting light, changes status. Trinkets waning in and out of use.
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.