«Didnt they teach you as a child that you cant build happiness on someone elses misery?» Anna gave me a faintly reproachful look.
«Oh, they did. I read about it in books. But as a child, I didnt need that lesson. Honestly, when youre carefree, do you even understand what happiness or misery really means? Or how you could build one on the other? Back then, all I dreamed about was more sweets and ice cream, catching my favourite cartoons, or going to the cinema.
Truth be told, most of my aunts and uncles were on their second or third marriageswhere was I supposed to learn morality from?
Annas my oldest friendalways proper, always upright. She never judged me, though. Over a glass of wine, shed happily listen to my tangled love stories.
She couldnt afford such indulgences herself. As a lecturer at the university, her position demanded respectability. Her marriage was steady, unshakable. In his youth, her husband, William, had been fond of Bacchusdrinking, causing scenes, even straying.
In the end, Anna put a stop to it. She made sure William stayed sober. At parties, hed sometimes grumble, saying he deserved to let loose now and then. Anna would just reply calmly, «Will, if you cant behave in company, dont bother trying.»
Eventually, William learned to take pride in his new rolepouring drinks for guests, making sure everyone had enough, passing around the nibbles. Anna even took him on holiday to Spain or Italy, but hed still embarrass her.
«Can you believe it?» she fumed once, back from Barcelona. «While I was sunbathing, this fool was at the bar, chatting up some shameless woman. Smiling, laughing, sharing cocktailsher eyes begging for him! Oh, just wait till were alone, I thought. Hell get a piece of my mind!»
«Bet he denied everything?» I smirked.
«Of course! Said I was imagining things,» Anna scoffed.
«And you?»
«Let him dream. Wheres he going to go? Whod want him on his pitiful salary? Even if some lonely widow scooped him up, shed toss him out within a month. All hes got is that roguish glint in his eyenothing else to offer.» She shrugged, satisfied.
When I met Mark, something twisted inside me. He was married with two sons. I fought the feelings, but they crashed over me like an avalanche. This was love at its most ruinous.
My conscience whispered, «Stop. Dont touch the fire. Youve got your own familywhy chase a married man? Youll regret it, drown in tears.»
But I charged ahead. I couldnt live a day without him. Mark and I were lost in each other, love like a knife at our throats.
Then, all barriers broke. We were left with nothing but our reckless passion. And the cycle began.
Six months in, we realised we had nothing in common. Still, we clung to the illusion of love. I kept reviving it, forcing it to breathe.
Mark drank endlessly, lied shamelessly, even raised his hand to me. We were from different worlds. Id kick him out, change the locks, cut off contact. Hed vanish for weeks, then return with roses and burning promises. I took him back every timeI loved him painfully, couldnt let go.
I should have. He drained me, hollowed me out, turned me inside out. In desperation, I threw myself into another mans armsjust to hurt Mark, to make him suffer like I had.
After a particularly bitter fight, Mark stormed off «for good.» I called an old admirer. Every woman keeps a spare, just in case. We met at a dimly lit bar, the kind where no one remembers your face. He held me too tightly, spoke too sweetly, and for a moment, I almost believed I could be saved. But as I stared at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, all I saw was Marks ghost hovering in the shadows, and myselffractured, familiar, falling again. The wine tasted like regret, and I knew, deep down, that no one was coming to rescue me. I had built my joy on wreckage, and now the ruins were all I had left.
