A Somber Denial of the Self

though she tells herself she trusts him the minute he is out the door for an extended trip of business she finds her way to his desk & with suspicious fingers, she rummages through his things looking for evidence of something that might explain his recent melancholic manner & though to her friends she paints the “perfect marriage,” saying that things have never been better, those evenings at home with him far away breed sleepless nights & even if she hadn’t found anything in her most recent investigation, she knows in her heart much like Abigail did her own visions of the “devil,” that such evidence is coming to her life soon, like some specter of the “apocalypse” hovering around the rafters bearing down upon her. when he does return she kisses him with the same paranoia tongue that tap dances around her “truth” playing the part of the dutiful significant other who never asks questions & never worries through her facial expressions so as to not let on to just how bad it is devouring up her insides & without a friend with whom she feels she can discuss what really is bothering her, she quietly awaits for the next time he leaves for the chance to find something incriminating which would satisfy all of her indictments convincing her of her own sanity assuring her that such a denial of self had all been worth it in the long run.