It amazed me to discover my own indifference. He had been talking all day through the clouds of smoke that the café always seemed to accept with open arms. He had been discussing politics, philosophy, religion, marriage, love, and everything in between. However, as time went on, I noticed that my enthusiasm at hearing his raspy voice from across the table was, well, short-lived to be modest.

I didn't care, and that was that.

Where was the passion in what he had to say? Where was the indulgence, the worth? It seemed silly to have to sit there for hours listening to a man that I didn't really love. Especially when this man had nothing to do with my life, other than the money in my purse and the clothes on my back.

I could do without him, I soon decided. I could live without the unshaven sideburns and potbelly that curved so far outward that I could hardly find his dick when he took off his pants. I could live without his constant nagging, his bragging, his but-dear-it-just-isn't-you's, slipping off his tongue as if he deserves to rant. As if I need his approval to feel good about myself. (I don't.)

We are reaching a great point in history, a time when women who diet and exercise no longer need the men that so pointedly announce the women that they own. I am not an object, I have feelings, I have needs. And this man, with his stubby legs and harsh scars, I do not need. I am not his, and I refuse to hold onto the possibility that he wants me for anything more than my look.

My look is my most prized possession, perfect by definition. He loves me because I can stand beside him and make him look respectable. I fell in love with him because he bought me the clothes that could maintain my flawless exterior appearance. After all, it's no secret that the only thing worth having in his pants is his wallet.

But I'm over all that. Now that my look has been perfected, he is the last person I want in my life. Whenever he goes off on one of his business trips, ("Now dear, please call me if there is any problem. I want my baby to always be completely comfortable") I find myself fucking the gardener. I carefully slip off my expensive white sundresses, and allow the commoner's dirty hands to touch me in ways he wouldn't have ever dared.

When he gets back, whistling that goddamn annoying tune, and smiling that disgusting grin of his, all is back in order. I'm wearing the pretty dress again, our sheets washed, and the gardener is safely weeding outside.

Except fucking the gardener is never really all that satisfying. I get a strange pleasure out of the way his grimy fingers touch me in untouchable places, but when all is said and done, he's still just a gardener. The mayor was much more enjoyable, and pulling off his boxers underneath his office desk was the most unspeakably exciting moment of my entire life.

Enough about me though, this is all about him. All about his stupid habits that have been driving me off the walls for years, all about his consistent ignorance at the many men I've preformed naked acrobatics with, all about how to get rid of him.

It was during that stupid conversation that I began thinking up ways to get away. While he was droning on about political morality, I was wondering where to get rat poison to plant into his morning coffee. Or maybe I could just accidentally drop my hair drier into one of his afternoon baths. A suicide, how tragic.

He stopped talking for a few seconds when he finally realized my unusual silence. "Dearest," he started, "what in the world is the matter? You haven't even touched your soup."

I glanced at the minestrone soup in front of me, and imagined myself throwing the steaming liquid into his face and running from the room. Instead, I smiled as sweetly as I could, and replied, "Oh, its nothing. You were saying about the economic consequences?"

And once again, I found myself staring into the depths of my watered-down broth.