The Wives

by Tarryn Fisher

That’s how women are, right? Always wondering about each other—curiosity and spite curdling together in little emotional puddles. Little good that does; if you wonder too hard, you’ll get everything wrong.

Imagine that...not wanting to be seen with your husband. Or your husband not wanting to be seen with you.

a bouquet of the palest pink roses. I chose them for their sexual innuendo because when you’re in a position like mine, being on top of your sexual game is of the utmost importance. Look at these delicate, pink petals. Do they make you think of my clit? Good!

To the right of the vaginal flowers sit two white candles in silver candlestick holders.

Lol

But the truth is that the heart’s desire is a mere current against the tide of nurture and nature. You can spend your whole life swimming against it and eventually you’ll get tired and the current of genes and upbringing will pull you under. I became a lot like her and a little bit like me.

Cooking, my mother taught me, is the only good way to be a wife.

Boo

We’ve kissed, and laughed, and fucked drunk. Only with me; he hasn’t done that with them. Silly, I know. I chose this life and it’s not about competing, it’s about providing, but one can’t help but keep a tally when other women are involved. When I return from the kitchen

My existence is exhausting, all of the games I play.

This is a woman’s curse. Be direct, but not too direct. Be strong, but not too strong. Ask questions, but not too many.

I shouldn’t wonder, but I do. How does a man love so many women? A different woman almost every other day. And where do I fall in the category of favor?

I love you all differently but equally.

“My father...” he started. I rolled my eyes. Half the known world could start an excuse with “my father.”

“So, where do I come in? You’re looking for a breeder and I fit your type?” I was being antagonistic, but it was an easy stab. Why had he chosen me, and who said I even wanted children? He looked stung by my accusation, but I didn’t feel bad about saying it. Men like him made me sick.

Thoughts of her pregnancy rouse images in my mind—of her long legs wrapped around Seth, him pushing relentlessly into her.

Yeah, I could never lol

Nice enough to open her home for a private tour to a complete, gawking stranger. Not such a stranger, I think as I follow her inside. We share the same penis, after all.

“Yes, I suppose,” I say, already bored with his answer.

I’m aggravated. I rarely ask questions, and when I do, I expect an answer. I expect answers for my compliance. My role isn’t an easy one.

I watch their progress and wonder what it’s like to be with a man who wants only you.

It’s all too perfect, I think. When things are that perfect, something is wrong.

I will not be the nagging shrew. I will not be the difficult wife. I will be the favorite, the one who makes his life easier. Who volunteers to suck his cock to ease his bad day and moans like it’s her receiving the pleasure.

Absolutely not

It is almost comical to think of someone giving advice on something as bizarre as plural marriage: Be supportive of the other women! Remember to suck his dick as often as you can so you can be the favorite...

I’m lying on the couch listening to sad music: The 1975, The Neighborhood, Jule Vera.

It's "The Neighbourhood"

Regina is more successful than I will ever be, more confident. Hannah is younger, prettier. I am somewhere in the middle of both of them, a medium to balance out the extremes.

When I get out of the shower, I look at myself naked in the bathroom mirror and try to imagine what Seth sees when he looks at me. I’m short, without the petiteness of Regina, my hips wide and my thighs full and muscular. My breasts spill over whatever shirt I’m wearing; out of a bra they hang loose and full.

Dinner with a friend, I text back. Nice. Which friend? The hair on my arms prickles. Seth’s not in the habit of quizzing me. In fact, he’s never asked about my friends, except to caution me not to tell them about us.

Where are you? If he’s being nosy, I have the right to be, too. Home. That’s an interesting answer, I think. Especially when he has three homes.

I tend to be the witty one in the relationship, always quipping something or the other while he laughs.

We’re all just waiting for someone to stand behind us, aren’t we? Even if it’s just one person, it gives you strength.”

That is male folly; they expect you to always be the same, reliable cow, but women spend their lives changing.

Our change can swing for you or against you depending on how fairly we’ve been treated.

What are you trying to wash off? If his knuckles look like that, what does Hannah look like? “I hit something.” That’s all he says, like it’s a good enough explanation. “Doing what?” My question seems to throw him off balance. He opens and closes his mouth. “Seth,” I say. “What have you done?”

“Why?” His eyes flutter. “How? We had an arrangement. Why would you do that?” “Yeah?” I seethe. “Or you had an arrangement. I’m sick of it. I wanted to know who she is. See her face. You get everything you want, three wives, and we’re just left to pine after you.”