Can I get a witness?

My man is busy. He wakes up to his blackberry alarm and begins working from home. He puts in twelve hours at work, and then returns home to his laptop to resume working. All he does is work.

When we have dinner–the only time I get him in the evening–he talks about work. Work, work, work. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia! I’m going out of my fucking mind.

The busier he gets, the angrier I get. The more time he spends away from me, the more time I want to spend with him. And when we do get time together, it’s usually socializing with his work colleagues. When I finally do get some alone time with him, we argue for half of it.

I’m the Widow of Wanchai. I play second fiddle to a blackberry. I am Julie, the Cruise Director to his Captain Stubing. I’m the John Oates of our Hall and Oates.

That I’m the more popular of the two in social settings means nothing. I only want to be the most popular for him. And it’s not like I’m some fat slob dragging my ass to the gym. I maintain/preserve my youth and looks with weights, running and vodka. People still think I’m in my 20s for God’s sake.

And all the personal pampering I do at salons or spas isn’t going to make up for the fact that I’m lonely in Hong Kong. Sure, my kids at the school I teach at help. But they’re a distraction more than a substitute. Life has to be more than spur of the moment trips by myself to Macau or martinis for one at the Shangri-La. I miss our beers at Tommy’s in Park Slope. Our runs in Prospect Park. And our Saturday nights at the Brooklyn Museum of Art.

Amen.

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