He loves me. I know he does. I have seen the signs.
When I first saw him he was toying with his tie. Loosening it, tugging it, worrying it. The cop he played was in Miami and it was supposed to be hot and humid and sticky. But he was all style and class: that tie would never come off.
I knew what he meant by playing with it. I knew what he was telling me.
Last night when he put his fingers to his lips (contemplatively, gently) he was telling her that he no longer loved her. He didn’t want to be having coffee with her, didn’t want to be in the restaurant with her. But he’s too polite — he couldn’t just come out and say it. Still, she didn’t get the message. She should have. She should have seen the signs, read the signals. He’s not meant for her.
All evening he kept glancing over at me.
He knew I was there. We were in the same room and I couldn’t take my eyes off of him; his presence was overpowering. When he looked at me it was electric. When he walked up to me and shouted, I felt angry — but it was something he had to do, to keep up his heterosexual façade for her. The feeling of his clenched, taut fists hitting me — God. Oh God.
The waiter didn’t understand and threw me out. But the world can’t keep us apart.
Tonight I’m going to his house. His wife needs to be told. She needs to know. She can’t come between us forever.