![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Aug. 2nd, 2009
[SR] Philip Roth quote
Aug. 2nd, 2009 05:23 pm[Set about three years ago. Grace = ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
heirtothe_chief, everyone else is an NPC.]
“No matter how much you know, no matter how much you think, no matter how much you plot and you connive and you plan, you're not superior to sex. It's a very risky game. A man wouldn't have two-thirds of the problems he has if he didn't venture off to get fucked.”
She didn’t say anything.
She was tired of saying something. Tired of thinking that he was actually listening, and tired of pretending that she didn’t care. She was tired of pretending to be okay with the way things were, and what this man—this man who she thought loved her—expected her to be able to just swallow this and deal with it. She couldn’t. She couldn’t just accept that he was always going to want other women more than he wanted her. That their marriage was looking to be one of convenience as oppose to love. That he wanted her family’s status more than he wanted an actual relationship with her.
She couldn’t be her mother. She didn’t want to be her mother.
He and the current bimbo were frozen, staring at her, and she just looked right back. She could see the wheels in his head turning, trying to find an explanation for their current predicament but she didn’t speak until her masochism reached its limit and she had to look away or she was going to fall apart, and she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
“Felicity—”
( *** )
785 words
heirtothe_chief, everyone else is an NPC.]“No matter how much you know, no matter how much you think, no matter how much you plot and you connive and you plan, you're not superior to sex. It's a very risky game. A man wouldn't have two-thirds of the problems he has if he didn't venture off to get fucked.”
She didn’t say anything.
She was tired of saying something. Tired of thinking that he was actually listening, and tired of pretending that she didn’t care. She was tired of pretending to be okay with the way things were, and what this man—this man who she thought loved her—expected her to be able to just swallow this and deal with it. She couldn’t. She couldn’t just accept that he was always going to want other women more than he wanted her. That their marriage was looking to be one of convenience as oppose to love. That he wanted her family’s status more than he wanted an actual relationship with her.
She couldn’t be her mother. She didn’t want to be her mother.
He and the current bimbo were frozen, staring at her, and she just looked right back. She could see the wheels in his head turning, trying to find an explanation for their current predicament but she didn’t speak until her masochism reached its limit and she had to look away or she was going to fall apart, and she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
“Felicity—”
( *** )
785 words
