He tells me I am his One. And this fills me with joy. But he has a past littered with women. Beautiful women. Adventurous women. Athletic women. Foreign women. Local women. These things I’ve gathered in our conversations. He doesn’t regale me with the details of his past loves as some men have done. I appreciate this. (Jack would expound on his sexual prowess and glory days as I lay naked in his arms. That’ll make a girl feel special, let me tell ya.)
I believe him when he tells me the others pale in comparison, that our connection is beyond what even he has experienced. I do. But I also wonder how that is possible. I’m just… me. I’m accustomed to me. I’ve lived with me all my life. So while I like me, I don’t see all the nuances he does.
But the adoration feels so good. It’s a healing balm to my oft self-inflicted wounds. And he’s been with so many… he’s seen so much… done so much… somehow I twist this into: the fact that he feels this way with so many to compare me to must mean something. Like a wine expert marking a new vintage 98 on a scale of 100. He’s had to sip a lot of wine to know the one he just tasted was special.
So I don’t lament the bountiful number of beauties he has sampled. Those experiences made him the connoisseur he is today. And the connoisseur wants me. Prefers me. Treasures me. Lavishes his attention on me. Now to keep it from going to my head…