The Example

DirtyBoxofPandora                   Re: Wife Diary
Join Date: May 2, 2011
Posts: 5

"August 5th, 2009,
It finally happened on a Friday evening. Kelvin's home office was a basement gym given over to masses of paperwork-whitecapped furniture. He had a rolltop desk, aeron chair, an ottomon--but also, in no discernably arranged fashion, a freeweight bench, an eliptical, dumbell pairs encircling, in the shape of a buzz saw blade, the base of a brass oriental cabinet helmeted by a 55" Phillips flat screen. Of course papers were fanned out all over the carpet, textually carved up in four seperate colors of highlighter, pulled from a four-foot stack of accordian folders as yet untouched. Some of the LTR sheets I could see were Personnel Performance Evals. I didn't spot my name, but woudn't have been surprised if it was hiding there, surgically slid into that doc-and-file maelstrom somewhere. In the far corner of the room a heavy bag hung from a steel hook in the ceiling by a factory-grade link chain. The nutbag had taped a print-out of Sy Mossman's face to it, right at the height a man's face should be on a heavybag. Mossman was going after the Managing Director job since Sklansky had been forced to resign due to knocked-up assistant. I knew Kelvin wanted the job, but an effigial of Mossman? The two of them had golf/lunch all the time. The things you learn when people let you into their private little worlds. Most likely though, it's just a schoolyard beef thing--friendly rivals. I like that guys can do that. And I liked how Kelvin's frenetic mind worked: an eliptical next to a glass China cabinate next to a pull-up bar. And I liked that his wife, when she was home and not out peddling real estate, must never have ever come down there, how she allowed him his rarified space. How more than likely he'd won it from her via negotiation. Manufactured her compliance for himself. And I never imagined the 20 plaques and the bust of the Roosevelt Elk on the wall would ever be something I'd go for. I didn't know that men like this still existed, or that they'd ever existed, that they weren't all just myths or died off with the last of the WWIIers. He called me over to the ottomon where he was sitting, undoing the knot in his tie. I did his shirt, every button, quietly, him smiling to one side of his face, me trying to look as though I was concentrating on work. He liked to use the whole room. He was playful. It was nice. And eventually I got there with him. He wheelbarreled me from the Stairmaster to the mini-bar, and that's where the real workout began..."

No more can I exfoliate from there. My finger they make lock on me and come like claw. It make feeling like small little baby child swimming in my lung, trying to clawing to my neck and face to make cry in me. I never whine like this. This words... to me sound not like a love. Please excuse. Must I go now.

Today, 4:07 AM

The End

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