Not My Problem

by Ciara Smyth

“There are few holes in this,” I said. “One: I guarantee I’m not going to be wondering what you’re doing years from now.” I’d be too busy making love to my wife, Kristen Stewart, on a bed of Flubberygiblets™ money.

“How are you tits deep in work and it’s only nine fifteen?” “I’m always tits deep,” she said absently. “I walk around brushing work off my nipples on a twenty-four seven basis.” “Sounds chafey,” I said.

I put my phone in my pocket and ran home, because if I didn’t get home quickly I was going to cry in public. I gave myself fifteen minutes. I bawled my eyes out. Face in my pillow. The kind of sobs that make your chest hurt. In a way I was relieved, really, that the tears had finally come. Maybe it was more like twenty minutes. But then I stitched up the hole that ripped open when these things happened. That scar always healed in an ugly way but it was tough. I got up and splashed my face with cold water to try and look less like a puffy mess. It didn’t do anything. I was just a puffy mess with a wet face.

If you accept that there’s a problem, then you have to do something about it.