Amazing, the things you remember lovers by…
B. had some interesting, even endearing, habits. One was how he’d meticulously peel an orange and eat it. He has done this ever since we first knew each other, back in 1987, at our workplace. We’d eat lunch together (usually amongst co-workers so as not to incite gossip that we’d become intimate) and, invariably, on his lunch tray, there was an orange. His dessert. B. loves oranges.
And even after two decades of being lovers, he’d peel it the very same way, first taking out his Swiss Army knife and slicing a neat circle around the top. I must’ve watched him do this hundreds of times, each time with surgical precision. He’d carefully slide his thumb under the circular cut and decapitate the orange. I always commented that the round remnant resembled a yarmulke.
It would look something like this (Oh B., you do this miles better than me. Look at those ragged edges. I did such a horrible job!):
With the tip of his blade he’d then make long, strong, parallel cuts from top to bottom, following the sections of the fruit inside and, too, methodically stripping away each piece of rind.
He’d remove ALL traces of pith, intently cleaning and scraping away the nasty veins and ribs until only the thinnest white veil covered the juicy pulp underneath. Thus skinned, would he break apart the segments and pop them, one by one, into his mouth.
At a weekend brunch he once prepared for me, B. got creative:
Folks, am I correct in assuming most people cut an eating orange something like this? :
Okay, so I fooled you. This ISN’T a nice, simple blog post about how my former lover enjoys his citrusy snack. It’s a post about lying. How, over two decades, we cut and peeled and scraped away layers. Who did the peeling?, I wonder. How many layers did we find? Did we expose them all? And what was finally exposed….palatable?
It took 26 years, a nasty break-up, and a personal protection order to ultimately find the innermost layer, and it was bitter:
Our love was a lie. ALL narcissists lie, and B. is a classic narcissist. He covered himself in layers of promise, of love, of outward signs of devotion and need. But when he found a new, ripe piece of fruit, he immediately discarded me…naked, bare, peeled open. He stripped my soul and left me to rot.
A former mistress (26 years, on-and-off) describes the good, the bad, and the ugly of her long-term affair. Conclusion: Affairs aren't necessarily destructive if kept in the correct perspective. Our experience enhanced BOTH our marriages.
That is, until his marriage ended and we began to love each other. When the affair morphed into a relationship, well, that's when it stopped being fun for me. We have now irrevocably split.
Lately I've been writing about the man who took his place in the "off" years of that 26-year-long affair. He was a dynamic sexual partner but we, too, now have irrevocably split.
These are our stories.