He loved Work more than he loved me. Work to him was a cherry-oak desk beneath a city of one thousand story paperwork. These paper skyscrapers had deadlines, but he liked the view. Work to him was the bouquet of fancy, sliver-lined pens and complimentary breath mints he got every morning of every workday. Work wrote him letters, and though a portion he thought heartlessly cruel, he filed every single one safely away in his treasure chest. Work gave him luxuries, I guess things that I couldn’t give. And soon he was hooked on Work like a fish on a line. And he discovered other fish because Work gave him an entire ocean of opportunity.
But Work left him a trail of to-do lists everywhere it went, yet he somehow preferred this over me. And all he left for me was a trail of his cologne, lingering on the air. I wrapped myself in his smell while he wrapped himself in Work. But Work was messy, and it passed this onto him, and then onto our marriage. Work abducted his mind and hogged all his thoughts from ever straying to think of me. I spent many late nights wondering when he would finally come home, and when he finally would, I’d find that he’d brought Work home with him.