His Mistress


He was always calm, poised, and cold. Even in bed, when his rumbles of pleasure drowned out the rustling of sheets, he was always stiff. I gave myself completely to him, yet he gave me nothing.

Oh, of course, he leased an apartment, wined and dined me, had those quiet moments of foreplay where we discussed politics, but in the end, he was always the one who went to sleep first, while I lay next to him, trembling, my heart pounding, and feeling with great reluctance at the fact that I was happiest when he held me. He was always the one who woke up first in the morning, half way in his suit, hair damp from a shower, and I would just lie there, the cool sheets sticking to my skin, watching his lean body bend to pick up a stray sock, adjust his glasses.

And little by little, he lost interest in me.

I became frantic. I tried different tactics. I became as cold and ruthless as he was. I even refused him at times, even though my heart screamed in protest.

But when we both lay, breathless from our exercise, he would get up and answer his phone. He would call his wife. I became invisible, a statue, nothing but a toy.

There were also times he would whisper, "You're just my mistress. You don't want to be my wife."

A man treating you with hate and contempt is better than indifference. If you ever love a man, make sure he notices you. Otherwise, you'll kill yourself with a broken heart.


There's something in my stomach now.

The doctor says it's a child.

I don't want a child.

I don't want his child.

He'll just cast it aside, maybe even advise me to get rid of it. Why should this human being in my stomach be related to such a man? He'll inherit the same cold eyes, the same indifferent glance.


I told him. His gaze stayed the same. I wanted a reaction from this man, this stone-hearted man who would weep to hear his stocks are crashing, but listen to the pregnancy of his mistress with the same cold gaze he had all year. He smiled such a crudely fake smile that he and I both knew was false, and waved his hand as if chasing away the infant in my womb. He continued the conversation about a rival company, called Suoh, and his plans to destroy it, and I listened, because that's how it is. A mistress who listens to her master.


I pity his wife.

When I asked if he had children, he glared at me. This was the most emotion he showed me, besides the groans that were emitted from him every night, and serves him right. He has two sons, one of which has autism. I pity the poor child. He will grow up even more twisted than his father.


Last night, I listened to my heart give way and crash, shattering. I stared at the broken pieces in his eyes, as he coldly, curtly, calmly told me that I was to kill my baby. My son. He did nothing to pick up my heart. Like the icy wind of winter, he swept away the pieces, hiding them so that no one could believe that this man had ripped out my heart, shredded it, and left me to die.


He breathes heavily next to me. I shudder. The love I bore for this man is no more. It has turned to repulsion, disgust. What am I to do if I tell him so? This apartment, my dresses, the daily dinners, they will all disappear. But he probably already knows. He always does. I am not the mistress of any ordinary man.


My hand flutters unconsciously over my stomach. He catches it, smiling. He's in a good mood today. Of course he is. We're in France, out of business affairs and his wife, and in Paris of all places. I thank him for buying me this large, flowing, and loose article of clothing. He replies with a kiss, murmuring I look like a butterfly. Oh yes. A pregnant butterfly. I'm happy for now. I'll be happy for a month, before this man flies back to Japan, and loses interest again. I know he has another mistress now. His wife knows too. He'll probably take that mistress for a round trip in Europe, better than this vacation he has with me, better than anything he did for his own wife.


I can no longer conceal this bump in loose shafts. He glares at me, pacing the room. My hair falls in my eyes. I stifle a tear.

"I thought I told you to go see a doctor about this…problem," he growls. I jerk my head. Problem? Our son is a problem?

Unable to speak, I merely nod. His cold fury drains all energy from me. He barks out, "I've made an appointment for you. For tomorrow. You'll be there."

It's a statement. I nod again. If I cry, I will be showing weakness. I cannot cry. I will not so much show a tear.

"Good." He stalks out, and I fall.


I am in the hospital.

I am diagnosed with severe depression.

I am to be watched.

My child is dead.

I wonder, how many pills will it take to go to sleep again?


He visits me.

While the doctor is not looking, he slaps me across the face. His face is twisted like a snake, and he's hissing. Spittle flies towards me as he snarls.

"If you wanted to take your own life, FINE! Why am I dragged into this? Why am I the one paying for your bills, your apartment, your clothes, if you don't appreciate it? Tell me, TELL ME! Why won't you speak?"

My eyes flutter shut and I sink beneath the waves.

I am floating, sinking, flowing. Wind catches me, folding me into their gentle caress.

They take away his shouts, my fears.

I open my eyes again, and decide what to do.


My hair is tied into a simple ponytail.

For the first time in many months, I am not wearing anything flashy or showy. Simple jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt. More than I could ask for.

I enter the café.

"I heard you were looking for a new barista?"

The manager comes out to greet me. He's surprisingly young. About my age.

He wears glasses, and has the same dark hair. He's tall, slender, and handsome. Just like him.

Then the manager smiles, and I see his crooked teeth.

Wonderful crooked teeth.

And his eyes are soft and brown. They're not cold or gray, nor steely with disregard to anything but himself.

"Welcome. Please take a seat."

For the first ten minutes, we chat. I tell him about Europe, what I've seen, and how I've spent three years trying to perfect my coffee for a very picky person.

"And who is that picky person?"

I smile.

"Oh, no one. He's gone from my life."


A/N: Was in the mood to write something dark. Hopefully, it'll end on a nice, positive note. Tell me what you thought about it, yes?