She married him for a green card. At 19 years old, “EB” was 15 years her junior, 6’5 and handsome, with pockets full of money. She – well, according to the sneaker box of pictures and letters he sent me (inmates send their mail home between prison transfers), she was also tall. About a shade lighter than me; caramel-complected with thick thighs, perky boobs – probably a small C-cup, and a flattish stomach. Her skin looked subtle and soft. These were bathing suit pics. She posed for her young husband in an orange two-piece, sprawled out on a couch – probably so he could jack off between conjugal visits.
EB was my boyfriend before he was her husband. Like right before. No, maybe a year or two before. Things were complicated.
I saw their daughter once. Her mother carried her bundled up in a white blank that day in, I wanna say October 1993 – five months after his arrest for manslaughter in the first degree. The year they were married.
She slept with EB’s best friend – nicknamed for his bulging forehead.
The divorce was finalized before his first release in 2003. She, an American citizen. He – a convicted felon, absent father – a man. Betrayed.
Categories: Blogging, Narratives, Personal Stories
I’m confused by this post in and of itself. It doesn’t seem like this’ a real incident but a story or some narrative or something? Clarification plz.
I have a storied past. Its non-fiction. What’s confusing? Maybe I can make the piece tighter.
Oh, and yes, it’s a short, short story/ narrative.
Some women are grimey