The frosted malt ice cream stood grandly in the middle of the table. It was a bustling Saturday night at Rocky’s cafe. Babies cried at deafening decibels and scathing clatter of cutlery mashed against the beats of Westlife blasting through the stereo.

But I was only staring into his eyes. Those impossibly enchanting eyes. They were brown as anything, but I swear when he smiled, it was iridescent like poetry to a color wheel.

He was no longer wearing the jet black hoodie that he always donned when we met, but that infamous round neck cotton tee (that I have gotten used to removing, mostly) still snuggled firmly against his body like a risque parade. I detected faint tones of his Hugo cologne, but I resisted that acknowledgement of the evoking familiarity.

Because my pupils will dilate more than it already has, and my heart will race like a blazing steed.

I took my seat opposite him, shoving my bag into the corner. I was careful not to sit right within the perimeters of his frame, as much as my OCD screamed internally.

“Hey…. How have you been?” He broke into a warm, happy smile, the one he wore when he first held my hand. When he first kissed my cheeks. The smile that was nothing but trouble.

“Hello, I’m fine. Where’s Leila?” I smiled back at him, the same one I gave when I let him step right in.

Right into my heart only to watch him destroy it.

“She’s reaching anytime soon.” came his reply, in a well practiced sprightly tone. He dug the long sundae spoon into the chocolaty goodness, breaking apart the brown slush as if attempting to break the awkwardness.

“Hey!!! Sorry, I’m late.” Leila took her seat beside him. The seat that was supposed to be mine. Her arm went around his biceps, little pinky sticking out. Yes, you didn’t have to do that; I can see that flashing diamond ring from a million miles away.

And so, in the middle of a family restaurant, we began the most ironic discussion ever.

“Nick and I have decided that its best to give you a monthly allowance because it is only right. And after its over, the amount as previously agreed. On top of that, I have signed up for this tonic package from Barrett’s, which will be delivered right to your door on the 4th of every month. I just want to thank you again. I am really, really grateful you have no idea.” Tears rolled down her eyes.

I smiled again, letting her voice just penetrate every cell of my body, intoxicating me like a druggie’s syringe.

And so that 20 minutes of excruciating pain ended. I finally allowed myself to take one long, unabashed stare into his eyes on pretext of saying goodbye; took my bag, the envelope and then left.

Where do I begin? I am such a mess. It all started with that innocuous texts, the late night chats and my remotely naive brain.

The fibers of my bedsheets seem to still carry memory of his body, naked, against mine. I remember that night when we first fell in love, how my fingers tingled as they danced against his biceps. He was quavering in sheer delight. He lowered his head, lips searching for mine. As our tongues fought, I was gently laid onto my bed. His hands moved like magic, as though wanting to conquer every part of my body. I was rendered helpless. My bra straps slid off my shoulders as though anticipating his voracious venture.

He grabbed my breasts, knowing just the right pressure as his fingers worked on my already taut nipples. That was only when we stopped kissing as he pulled his face an inch away from mine, giving that smile, before reaching out to the left breast whose bud cried to be basted. He cocooned against me while he sucked and flicked with such expertise that I felt my nether region blushing, moistening with desire.

His hips rocked against mine, as his erection teased through the thin fabric of his berms against my bare skin. I intuitively stretched out for the zip, wanting to feel his warmth. My body was so tensed, my lips trembled as I bit on them, wanting to appear less euphoric than I really was.

He then raised my legs up, kneeling down and heaved them over his shoulders. I felt his breath against my clitoris as he dived, attempting to devour it with his lips. The intensity of his nibbling was balanced out by his perpetual licks. His left hand was still occupied with my breast, kneading with fury, whilst his right hand joined in the party right where his tongue was.

Two fingers in, he located my sweet spot and brewed up an ecstatic frenzy.  My moans were reverberating throughout the room as adrenaline shot through the roof.

I meekly grabbed his hair as I feel myself weakening. The orgasm built up within me like a hot air balloon. I fought to breathe as my organs no longer seem to function. I whispered his name, relishing the every flick of his tongue, the coarseness of his fingers rubbing against the inside. I was so wet, a puddle formed right at the entrance of my labia. And then it finally exploded.

I came as fervent waves surged through me like ripples in a tidal wave. He then took me in a heartbeat, thrusting in so hard that I was unable to scream. He lifted my legs up, wanting to me to take in all of him. The rhythm went in sync with my cries and our heartbeats as he went harder and faster.

He was pulsating so hard, it was like a tap dance to my bloodstream. He then bent over, hands ravaging my breasts in a hot, hot hunger. He then whispered “I love you so very much.”. Thinking back now, I figured it was just the effects of overwhelming lust.

He then kissed me again, hot sweaty body grazed mine as he pounded exponentially, and then finally, with 3 hard thrusts, he spilled all over inside of me, his groans granting goosebumps across my skin.

He smiled again, giving a satisfied smirk this time whilst my entire body smarted from the overly good sex. I slumped against the pillow, momentarily paralyzed in sheer attenuation.

It must have been the oxytocin because we cuddled afterwards, all the way till dawn.

_

I snapped out of that stupid reminiscence. I plodded into the toilet, popped a vitamin pill and lied down flat on my bed.

3 god damn months…. I patted my lower abdomen subconsciously. 3 fucking months of carrying this labor of love, 6 months into thinking I was the luckiest woman alive and he told me he was married with a barren wife.

That very day when those words left his lips, I felt my heart died.

Why did he even bother to stage all that play? The dating, the flirting and the roses every time we met. The little acts of nibbling on my ears, playing with my hair and those special gazes that seem construct an entire universe in just one second. Just tell me straight “Hi, I need your womb, not your fucking stupid heart.”

I am the fool, for not wanting to give up on this child. But its innocent. And so was I. But he wasn’t.

I remember when I held the knife, pressing against my already visibly swollen belly. His
“I love you, baby. I had no choice” was on repeat like a recorder. I saw him cry. He threw his fucking wedding ring out of the window and tried to convince me to drop the knife.

To bear the baby for him because he loves me and not his wife.

How can anyone be stupider than me to believe it was an external insemination? I remember first looking at Leila with a hint of pity.

Surely? In the 20th century you are telling me an ancient Chinese folklore of arranged marriage and deep antagonism?

But I relented. I was stupid, but I rather be stupid than a murderer. My heart was traded for nothing but a would be full 9 months of grueling pain, both physical and emotional. And a scar that will shadow me forever.

Can I actually survive that? I looked at the envelope I left on the desk. I opened it and the crisp cheque slipped out, onto the duvet. I wanted to tear it apart, right down the middle. I wanted to scream and ram my stomach against a pickaxe in sheer rashness.

I want to cut open my skull, mash up my brains with a sledge hammer and then zip it back up. For probably being the stupidest woman in the world.

But, I couldn’t stop myself from loving him. And everytime when my hand goes over my belly, pain and love collide in startling copiousness. In inundation of helplessness and anger.

I want my baby, no, their baby to grow up happy and at least know that it was made with so much love, albeit full of disdain and a tinge of abhorrence, but never once, regret.

I’m fine. I will be. Because sometimes in life, love kills, but creates anew. And we just have to deal with being the one with the shorter end of the stick.