Pick me, pick me, pick me, is my cry. I sing it out to the doctors who don’t wear their wedding rings at work, to the preacher, to the clergy men. I sing, letting my angel voice carry to married men. Tempting them, I walk around the office, intercepting their schedules, sending winks, small flirting, a brush of the hands. How’s your wife? I ask, pitying them, pitying the monogamous.
Tell me, please tell me:
Can she make your heartbeat like I can?
Can she understand you like I can? I can make you love me.
My daddy left me, my daddy raped me, my daddy loved me. I need someone, I need you. Hot breath, late nights, mysterious phone calls, just friends, just coworkers. Promises to leave your wife, we both know. We both know you never will. You told me you love me, please, don’t leave. Please, tell me I’m the one for you, make me feel special if just for one night. Last night your eyes were a twinkling green, but this morning at work they are a cold black, neglecting me, pretending I am just another coworker. I may work from nine to five, but I was working with you late last night. Where’s the man?
Please. I can’t go on without you. Please. Come back to me. Why haven’t you returned my calls? Is it your wife? Can she make your heartbeat like me? She doesn’t love you like me, please come back.
The Adultress. No one loves her right? Jesus is in love with this broken woman. The saddest part is she can’t love herself.