Jealousy

I am consumed with jealousy. I cannot think. I cannot think clearly.

She could be on her own; she could be with friends. She could be somewhere new; she could be at work; she could be feeding the squirrels with her sandwich during her lunch break. She eats so little. She should eat more.

She could be at a bar, snogging a drunken man, a sober man; she could be drunk herself.

She could be on the phone with her parents, telling them of her weekend in Brighton. She could be on the phone with her brother, telling him of the problems with her computer. She could be chatting over the sales with her friend Sarah.

She could plan to meet her ex.

She could have chosen that dress because she heard on the radio the day would be sunny. She could have chosen it because she fancies it. She could have chosen it because it was a present to her.

She could be wearing it because men look more intently at her. Some crane their neck.

She could be jogging; she could be doing her grocery shopping; she could be taking a shower.

She could be jealous too, and not willing to speak with me.

She could think me an idiot. She could think I'm pathetic. She could think I'm hopelessly in love with her.

She could just be out for dinner with her friends. She could be looking at them only. She could shut herself to the world outside. She could rebuke every suitor, every gazer, every playboy in town, in the world. She could open her arms to them, make them happy and make me sad.

She could have dirty thoughts, sweaty reveries of her having sex in the toilets of a bar, or in a car, with strangers, with colleagues, with her ex, with her friend Sarah, with me.

She could dream of worse things. She could stay with me because she's happy, because she feels secure, because she has no one else on her list.

She could be anywhere else I'd find fault with this.

She could be on her own, minding her own business, I'd find fault with this.

Everything she does sounds suspicious. Everything she says, wears, smells, buys, eats, seems suspicious. Everywhere she goes. Everyone she meets, calls, chats with. My life, because of her, is a hell on earth.

She could be with me, forever. She could think of me only. I could be the only thing on her mind, all day long. She could be with me, but ultimately I'd find fault with this too.

I am consumed with jealousy, and every day I watch her kiss her boyfriend goodbye on the doorstep to her house.