My mother was sadistic about hair. Her hair was perfectly formed into a hard helmet with the aid of her aerosol can of hairspray. This sadism stretched to my hair. As was the typical style of 1952, my strawberry blonde hair nearly reached my shoulders and had I let it loose and straight instead of puffing up the top and curling the ends it would have brushed my shoulders. My make-up was designed to accent my bright blue eyes and puff out my slightly thin lips. My posture had been ram-rod straight since birth because my mother constantly stood behind me pulling back my shoulders. She taught me how to smile when I wanted to cry, how to see to every whim of others, how to cook a five-course dinner that assaulted all the senses and how to show my body off to its best advantage. All this she taught me so I could attain the perfect marriage by keeping my husband happy, not even considering how to make me happy.
All was going according to my mother’s plan as I had the perfect wedding, with the perfect stark-white dress, the perfect church with a stark-white steeple, and of course the husband with the perfect amount of money and status. Ethan took me home after our fast-paced courting and even shorter wedding. I was content with my new grand apartment in New York City. It had high ceilings, a tall fireplace and giant windows with bright blue curtains long enough to make Scarlett O’Hara three ball gowns. Everything was bigger than life, including Ethan. Ethan’s features matched mine but he had a wildness about him. His blonde hair never stayed perfectly parted to the side; there was always that one mischievous lock of hair that wandered about his forehead. His blue eyes crinkled at the edges and sparkled, constantly seeking pleasure. His lithe body easily encompassed mine, and he easily led me to the bedroom and brought me through the motions with a well-practiced hand. At the end of our first night together I felt proud that I had pleased my husband. My mother would have been proud.
The days went by and I cleaned our home, did our laundry, cooked dinner, set the table, and waited for Ethan to return home so I could feed his hunger and satisfy him. Quickly days turned into weeks and the routine lost its sparkle. Our courtship had been fast and just as fast I was losing interest in the marriage routine of solely pleasing my husband. I began to notice that Ethan always stayed late at work, but my mother told me to ignore it, he was just dedicated. I began to notice that he only enjoyed me when I rushed to fulfill his current desire; which could be anything from cooking a tuna casserole to tying him to the bed and spanking him. He was never interested in pleasing me or lifting a single finger for me. I began to notice that my favorite part of the day was when I ran errands. When I walked on the concrete sidewalks I felt purpose in my stride, and a beat coursing through my leg muscles. There was something about the world rushing past me with the cars going to specific places and people with a purpose entering and exiting buildings. While I walked to the corner store to retrieve the dry cleaning I felt that I too had a purpose and I belonged to this world. I could feel the fresh air brush my skin and struggle to blow my hard hair back and I felt free and oriented. I started to make these trips outdoors more and more frequent, jumping at any reason to run an errand or meet a girlfriend for coffee at Barney’s. I never stopped catering to Ethan, he was my sole support and the center of my life, I truly did want him to be happy, and it made my mother happy to see the marriage progressing so pleasantly.
As my life progressed I agreed with my mother that it was all worth it, I had a comfortable home with pleasant experiences all about me. Yet, I was still noticing that my husband was staying late, and not only that, he was taking a lot of business trips. Once again my mother told me he was just diligent. Then I began to notice that he was less interested in sex; the intervals between pleasure increased from every other day to once a week and then to twice a month. My mother told me it was my fault. I wasn’t showing enough interest in him and he was probably just trying to relieve me of duties that I loathed to perform. So I struggled to show Ethan that I didn’t loathe it, I rather enjoyed sex with him. I ran out and bought a satin slip that I hoped he would enjoy and I began to try and coerce him into bed. That worked for a short amount of time but quickly he lost interest in me again. My mother claimed that I must be bad at pleasing him. So once again I worked very hard to pleasure him, asking for as much direction as he would give and doing any acts he wanted me to, including making love on my precious and clean kitchen counter where I cook all his meals. When he lost interest again I knew it couldn’t be me. I was perfect after all, I kept myself in perfect condition and I did everything for him that he could possibly want. Ethan just seemed to have something about him that made him wander and give in to whatever swayed him at the moment. My mother told me not to bother with it anymore. He wasn’t doing anything wrong and if I kept worrying about it and snooping around it would only lead to trouble.
I couldn’t do that. Something was going on. Ethan was slowly swaying away from me and giving in to other temptations. I wasn’t sure what I would find but I knew that something was going on at his office late at night. He was not diligent. So I stepped out of my shelter and walked among the crowds of people with determination in my step. I pushed through the door of his office building and ascended the stairs to the fifth floor. The legal office suites that he worked in were deserted. I softly padded across the lush carpeting to Ethan’s corner office where light streamed out through the crack between the dark wooden door and beige carpet fibers. When I grabbed the icy cold brass door knob I felt a moment of static apprehension. I swung the door open anyway.
My eyes quickly shut, unable to take in the sight of my husband standing in front of his mahogany desk with his designer navy pants wrapped around his ankles as his butt clenched to thrust into a skirt attached to legs with red and white polka dot pumps that was stretched across the desk. I swirled around wishing my hair would move freely so it could block my eyes from the sight faster than I could turn my head.
Back at home I packed my Coach bag, knowing that I could not stay there for one more hour. As I piled all my perfectly beautiful things into my overnight bag I realized that I had nowhere to go. I left the apartment and I walked out upon the streets among the people with purpose. I just wandered aimlessly, unable to find my beat. My husband was my entire world and now it had become infested with despair and my heart crumpled in upon itself. Finding a warm alleyway I leaned against the building and slid my back down the slimy brick to the ground. I closed my eyes but I was still haunted by that one image, the shoes. Those red and white polka dot pumps were gorgeous. But the soles of the shoes were purple when they were supposed to be red. They were imperfect. They were re-soled by a shoemaker downtown that would fix worn out pumps by adding a thick layer of purple rubber. I knew this because my mother often visited this shoemaker. My mother had the same exact pair of red and white polka dot pumps with a purple rubber sole.
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