She hadn't had much to do after the separation. He was sort of her life, and she sort of… still cared so deeply for him. Oh, of course, there were times she knew, just knew that he didn't care any longer, she just knew that he had lost interest in her much, much before he had even brought it up.
That hurt, of course, but she put on a weak little smile every day and just did as he said. It wasn't as if she had to, really, but… what else did she have?
She tried dating again. That was a train wreck, she noted, laughing softly and weakly to herself as she sat in the club he used to work in. She found herself drinking, too, it felt like it was natural compared to walking about the empty, huge house they had shared together.
She even threw out the photographs, the writings she had done herself.
But it was only a matter of days until she took up writing again, writing long pages full of ramblings and empty songs with no real meanings, except the one thing she really desired. That sweet man who she had first loved, one summer afternoon in a small field.
She wrote a small story, one of romance and kindness and of true love. She really didn't like it, in fact she admitted one day that she couldn't stand it in the slightest. But in truth, it was about what she wanted, what she truly needed and longed for.
She read it again and again, being short on money and unable to hire an editor, and with each and every reading she could not stop herself from feeling horrid, feeling awful, feeling like it was all her fault.
Eventually she brought the story to a publisher, led by a man who was tall and loud and broad, easily excitable and pale as snow. She disliked him, disliked his whole demeanor, but something about him kept her near. So, they became involved, despite his having a wife already. She didn't care, really, in fact it didn't even make a difference to her. She just needed someone's attention once in a while.
They had sex every night, it seemed, but she was never satisfied, and never showed her emotion. She didn't enjoy sex even with the last man, but with this one it felt even worse, almost… painful. She stayed up once he passed out for the night, and downed a whole bottle of whiskey in silence, not caring about it any longer. She would touch herself, if only to get a little thrill in her life.
Soon enough she was thirty-five, but she felt much older. Much, much older. She'd look into the mirror and she'd see and old woman, a tired, lonesome woman with nothing left to lose and no one left to care for. She hadn't even had children, no one to care for her in old age, no less. She spent her time sitting in the house in silence, in loneliness. The affair had ended in nothing, just a pair of goodbyes and a handshake, and he was off on his way, back to his wife.
She stopped crying at about twenty nine. Three years after. She found it to be useless, to be boring and pitiful. But that was the least of what she would have ever wanted, not pity. Never pity. Pity meant you were looked down upon, pity meant you were worthless. She did not think of herself as worthless just yet. Not quite yet, she would give herself some time.
Hell, she had all the time in the world.