You Don’t Know

This post contains language that some may object to. You know who you are. 🙂 Don’t object if you read further.

You Don’t Know

She doesn’t recognize herself in the mirror, lines around her lips. She spends less time there now. She won’t give in to shots of botox or surgery. Men look at younger ones now. She has become invisible.

Sex hurts. The nympho in her curls inward. All of these years bitching about the fucking period and now, it hurts to be penetrated. What a cruel joke.

And the net result of online dating?

The man says he wants a woman from 45-60, but at the restaurant his eyes barely glance at her between sips of his vodka martini when there’s an under 40 around. He’s smart enough, funny enough, but his roaming eyes warn her.

At home, her dog jumps up, wags his tail. She sits on the tiled floor of the foyer, hugging this creature and his real, unconditional love, accepting his licks to her temple

Divorce kicked her ass. Aging now too. Her young officemates treat her like a fossil, even though she offers smart alternatives. She’s not even mid-fifties.

Her dog, though. He thinks she’s the best thing, although sometimes second to Greenies.

She thinks of going to Europe. More than once she’s heard that they respect middle-aged and even older women there. They even think they’re sexy. (Her nympho shines.)

In the United States, with its obsession with youth, she’s washed up, disrespected. Her brain disregarded.

It took just one last dissing. One man on a date staring at the firm ass of the waitress, ignoring her witty comeback to his stupid meandering about, well, Freddie Mercury and Queen. He thought Vanilla Ice invented the riff.

She almost hears a voulez-vous in her future.

She books a one way ticket for her and her dog to France.

end 2/4/2017

S. Darlington

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