I Resign From Being The Other Woman

I resign from being The Other Woman.

The Other Woman is not only somebody’s mistress. She is the woman that husbands stare at across the shoulders of their wives. She is who wives despise and girlfriends fear. The Other Woman cannot engage in a conversation with a man without him finding any way to reference his wife, his girlfriend or another woman he is dating. She is mocked for her beauty and viewed as a side quest that will only lead to the real treasure. Essentially, The Other Woman is the woman who is never chosen first.

It seems that The Other Woman is recruited to help men love their existing partners more. Like having a hobby that makes their nine-to-five more bearable. The Other Woman is never complimented. She is never wined or dined. The Other Woman never truly knows where she stands against a man. But she wears her skin translucent, you can read her veins. The colour of her eyes will tell you exactly what she thinks of you, what she wants from you, what she needs. And the man will see it, but continue to take what they want from her instead.

I can be very indecisive. This is a trait I dislike in myself and am attempting to rectify. Instead of longing for and questioning hypotheticals, I will retrieve the answers I need. There is a man whom I am rather interested in. He is single, age-appropriate and sweet. However, his disinterest in my mere presence made me question what he thinks of me. So, I asked him. After he confirmed that his impression of me is not negative, I portrayed active politeness. I hoped he would understand that I want to get to know him more – and that I find him quite attractive. Following my efforts, I was met with more cold disinterest. Fair enough, he is just not into me. Though, the situation forced me to look back on my previous encounters with men where they fail to show me basic respect and decency. The Other Woman does not deserve basic respect and decency.

Despite my disappointment in his lack of reciprocation, none of these men could hurt me as much as that other man did. Whether he agreed or not, I was his mistress. While his girlfriend slept in his bed, he would message me detailing the shame it was that I was not with him on the sofa he had been relegated to. After a day in the office where he would look through me like a ghost, he would impatiently pick up the phone during his commute and tell me things you should not utter to a woman who is not The One You Love. In a dark and loud bar, he told me with his hands on my waist that we could be together in a year or two. Walking through London’s streets, he took my hand in his and held it – though, not tightly. I know what you are thinking: What an awful man. Surely, she would not entertain such behaviour. While he was awful, he was also very clever. And, although I was not innocent in this affair, he was the one who made me fall in love with him.

Truthfully, I believe I fell so heavily for this evil man because I felt a human intimacy I had never before. Each palm placed on my back, each arm reached out to guide me through narrow corridors and streets, each handhold and each word spoken in deep conversation, it was all I ever wanted. I want this intimacy again, but I want it from a good man. The type of intimacy that is not guilt-ridden and unclean. After all, I am a romantic. I want dancing in the kitchen at three in the morning while the pasta is boiling. I want small and frequent kisses and laughs in between and gazes in eyes that mean more than words could ever speak. I want the love that I believe I deserve.

Even now, my clothes and skin are soaked from walking home underneath a rainstorm. My curly hair, which I spent extra time styling this morning because I thought he might notice me better, is drooped and dripping onto my shoulders. Is it too much to ask for him to look at me like this and wrap me in a coat that smells like him? Why could he not wipe the water from my eyes and hold my face in his hands, look at me, really look at me, and kiss me in the pouring rain? Instead, he has left me on read yet again, and I attempt to find warmth within his lack of interest. I do not want to be The Other Woman anymore. I want to be The One, The Only.