Disappointment is a persistent low-grade stinging in my chest, churning slowly, like a fist clenching in a space where it doesn’t quite fit.
I fear I always screw things up with him. I never say the right things. How is it that I’ve worked all these years to be pleasing to men, yet none of the men I’m with want those things I’d been raised to believe men want?
Well, that’s not true. Not exactly. My ex-husband wanted a harem, after all, and that fits the stereotype.
I feel like I’ve trained all my life for a sport that doesn’t exist. Or at least one that no one wants to play with me.
Whatever it is that we are playing at, the rules are always changing. Fluxx gets old after a while.