BN Prose: Dear Paul by Theo Ubabunike

Dear Paul,

Our relationship has been under some obvious strain in the last few months, and even more so in the last few weeks. I’ve noticed how much we barely talk to each other, never saying more than the perfunctory words. I’ve noticed how you stiffen at my touch, and how you avert your eyes when you speak to me.

I’ve been reading books and magazines – I spend so much more time alone now, since you barely come home – and they say that maybe you need to work through some issues and you need space, or that maybe you are losing interest and are seeing someone else.

I know we promised to be honest to each other, to tell the truth no matter how painful, but when I ask you if you are seeing someone else (I know I shouldn’t, but I do not know how not to ask), please tell me no. Please do not tell me her name, do not let me know that she does exist. Please lie to me and say that you still love me, that you will never choose someone else, and that you will never leave.

I say this because I will wonder what she looks like, the color of her eyes, of her skin, of her hair. I will wonder about the sound of her voice, whether it turns you on. I will wonder if you have sex and what it’s like. I will wonder if you stare at her with the same intensity you used to stare at me, if you kiss her like you did me, full and unabashed, demanding, questioning. I will wonder if you trace the outlines of her body with your fingers, the fullness of her breasts, the curve of her hips. I will wonder if you bite her nipples until she cries with painful pleasure, if she gasps when you slip your fingers inside her wetness. I will wonder if she touches herself while you watch, if she grabs your buttocks as you thrust, if she traps you with her legs so that you come inside. I will wonder if she watches you while you sleep, if she listens to your heartbeat and kisses you in the most unusual places.

I will wonder if you ever think about me when you’re with her, if you ever talk about me, if she cares that I exist. So please tell me no, for even though I will still think these thoughts regardless, at least I will do so without certainty.

Kome’s writing has improved, her hands are steadier. She complains of the colour of her room, that it is too much pink and gives her a headache. She doesn’t talk about you, or of your absence at dinner and late nights. She didn’t ask why you didn’t spend last Christmas at home, but she wonders if you’ll be home for her birthday and if you’ll get her a jellyfish for her present.

I love you. I know you will never read this, because I have seen the dusty pile of the other letters I have written you on your bedside table, and it gives me a little comfort to know that I will not have to imagine the snicker on your face and the derision in your voice, or hear the sound of you ripping them up to small pieces

Kate.