Notes From The Insecure
I can make those who are single and abandoned through infidelity feel better with this statement: we are all being betrayed, always. Even when there is no physical transgression, those in a couple will recognise signs: the emergent lack of interest in something once-shared; the adoption of somebody else’s awful vernacular; the wandering attention during time that was formerly designated quality; and worst of all, the repeated mention of another’s name, as your partner finds it increasingly difficult to keep a crush or infatuation a secret in the face of natural synaptic leaps, and what may seem innocuous and unconnected to them is glaring to you, illuminating a gut-sickening pre-occupation.
Hope as hard as you can that it won’t be the complete betrayal; hope that it won’t be a cliché; hope that it won’t humiliate and demean you, like so much has done. Hope that this doesn’t signify the gradual erosion of love, respect, the increasing contempt from familiarity. Hope that your chosen partner will be smart enough to recognise the subconscious quest for novelty for exactly what it is. Hope that fantasy will be shattered by a clumsy deed that shines an interrogation lamp on the banality of everyday everyone: young, horny fools; mature idiots blinded by biological imperatives and last-gasp opportunism.
And if the partner whose thoughts have never wavered exists, well, what are they missing? Are they superman, superwoman, savant, subnormal? Do they make you a lucky spouse or fiancé, or are you bored? Are you looking around? Swipe right for yes, left for no.
As for those who cheat brazenly and without remorse or thought, fuck you a hundred times over. We all hate you, you perpetrators of violent acts and creators of old maids, curmudgeonly bachelors, kids with two homes or one parent, weekend-dads, weakened mums.
So not prudishly but pragmatically I say, keep your comments and your hands and your vanity and your narcissistic wish-fulfilment to yourself, you selfish, troubled assholes. Your fun is the end of me.
Simon Pinkerton is a writer from London, England. He writes short-stories and humo(u)r, and in 2015 so far features in McSweeney’s, Squawk Back and Defenestration. He has a Twitter @simonpinkerton ,and new followers and nice comments validate his existence,so please do that.
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Cover Photo: Argonne National Laboratory (https://www.flickr.com/photos/argonne/)