i don’t believe you

my mail woman delivered a package to my house yesterday. i thanked her and she asked if i had a bottle of water. of course i ran in and got her two and a little snack pack of cashews. it’s still close to 100 degrees here in houston. the afternoon humidity is ungodly. she looked me right in the eyes as i handed her the cold waters and she said, “you’re so beautiful.”

i laughed and told her “thanks” but what i really wanted to say was…

“i don’t believe you.”

the night before i was home alone. the kids with their dad. i was a little wine drunk so i texted my son’s basketball coach. he’s 29, (i’m not making this up) 6’6″ and text book beautiful. soft black hair. veins in his biceps from playing pro ball in europe. slight, scruffy black beard and icy blue eyes. he wears a hat backwards and he smokes weed and believes in “vibes.” he’s so fucking hot and 100 percent millennial. i’ve sensed an energy between us. electricity. he slowly walks me to my car after practices and lingers. sends me funny vids or songs he likes. so i texted. and 30 minutes later he was there with a box of condoms.

he said lots of things. what’s that called? pillow talk? filthy stuff and sweet stuff too. told me i was sexy. that my ass was incredible. that i fuck so good. i moaned and said sweet and filthy things back but what i really wanted to say was…

“i don’t believe you.”

i used to be. god. i used to be beautiful and sexy and funny. i lit up rooms with my confidence and charm. i don’t mean to sound like an asshole. i just mean…there was a time that the mail woman would tell me i’m beautiful and i believed her. because i was. but now…now i’m a dark cloud. a weeping mess. a sad sack that says the “f” word in front of school moms. i’m broken. a pile. you could tell me with all the sincerity one could muster….

but i don’t believe you.

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