When we first met, his King-sized Serta was the amenity that sealed the deal. It was the “best sleep I’ve ever had”. It was a Stark contrast to the twin sized mattress I had been reduced to sharing with my five year old at my mother’s house, which, most of the time resulted in me making even less desirable accommodations on the floor with a solitary pillow, no blanket. He was my hero, of sorts, no cape, just a King-sized Serta and cable. For once, I was on clouds, instead of buried alone under cum stained comforters that I couldn’t afford to wash, my Savior with a Serta. Now, after eight months of corny courtship and one year of less than mediocre marriage, our mattress is lumpy and uneven and he doesn’t make enough to replace it. Needless to say, this has a bearing on my firm yet somehow fluffy fairytale of matrimonial bliss. What’s a girl to do when her standards of comfort have out grown her husband’s pockets? What’s the purpose of Serta sentimentality when my back remains unblown, the toilet runs incessantly, the window units are insufficient, and my hair and nails are undone for the twelfth consecutive month? I find myself flashing a food stamp card instead of my dust of diamond ring. But I don’t know which inhibits me more, the card that says that I, married at 27, can’t afford to feed myself or the fact that my marriage is symbolized by a ring that was too cheap to pawn to pay the bills. He spent two grand to stroke Kay’s jeweler. Every kiss since started bitterly, so I stopped wearing the sucker. I didn’t marry a man 17 years my senior to go without. But, was he ever truly my provider? I mean, when we met I made twice as much at my job than he did at his two. Now that I’ve been encumbered with unemployment, what was once mistaken for shining armor is now dull and his white horse, a mangy mule. I wish my memory served me better. Was my money his extra or vice versa? I don’t know. I just wish my hair and nails were done.
As so above, so below,
The Huntress
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