You laugh at your own suspicious thoughts. Clearly you’ve been reading too many suspense novels. Of course your dearest darling Baxter would never cheat. You are the foolish one for thinking marriage should be perfect. Your own unrealistic expectations are the enemy, you decide.
You give Baxter the benefit of the doubt.
Even when he starts snapping at you for the tiniest things.
And when he shuts his eyes the whole time he makes love to you, which is less and less often.
And when you tip-toe into his closet to tuck a desperately suggestive Post-It into his Rockports and find another Post-It already tucked in there. An X-rated love Post-It. One you didn’t write.
Your self-esteem gets so shaky you gain 150 pounds and an anxiety condition. Your poetry achieves a darkly brilliant Sylvia Plath feel but you write less and less. You don’t dare confront him. If he divorces you, who else would have such a worthless, trembling ball of nerves as yourself? Before you can get on medication or seek any help, Baxter leaves you for his receptionist "Bunny" and you fall into a black depression alleviated only by taking a fatal overdose of Xanax.
The End
