i’m so sorry ellen (ok not so much, but i know what i am doing is wrong).
i had slept with your wife.
i said it.
there is no easy way to break the news. i know it’s not nice. i can’t promise i won’t do it again. but i did it.
as i go through this monologue in my mind with turkish coffee in one hand, she is lying there, naked in my bed with her head buried in the soft white pillow. messy blonde hair, black stilettos on one side… shoe size is 38, right? see? i just looked at her shoes and she is wearing 38.
we did it ellen. don’t ask me how it happened. i have no idea. all i know is i wake up, go to my super cool kitchen-and yes, ladies do like super cool kitchens even if they can’t cook, you might wanna note that somewhere- make a cup of turkish coffee, come back to the bedroom to look at the ocean view and i see her lying there. the sad part (for you) is i don’t even like portia. she is not my type. really! i don’t know how she convinces me to sleep with her everytime. i mean she is an aussie, right? i never slept with an aussie, but i would have never laid hands on her for crossing one more counrty on my world map. nope. i’m cheap at times, but not for an aussie, come on (no harsh feelings aussies, but you are everywhere. it’s not like you are a rare cambodian supermodel or something, you know)
what is a bigger mystery is not why i get there with her but rather how i get there with her. she couldn’t have gotten me drunk…i never drink to get drunk….i don’t do drugs…i don’t even go out much when i am in this house. i just come here to chill. it’s my spot to escape all that world-wide-famous writer thing…you just need it sometimes, you know. and i bet portia doesn’t even know i have a blog. she probably could not even finish one of my novels, to begin with. i don’t mean to degrade her intellectual capacity or anything..it’s just….i’m good at this thing you know. why would she read me anyways. right?
no idea ellen. really, i have no idea.
i just write this blog and then the book comes out and then the films are made and then i get famous and rich and super fit (without even having to exercise or cut down on doritos) and i end up in this villa with a private winery overseeing some ocean (i’m guessing it’s the pacific). i’m growing my own vegetables and i’m cooking for friends and i have this huge library full of books i have read and written and the next thing i know is i wake up next to your wife.
i do like you, you know. i like your stuff. i think you are funny and nice. i would normally never ever do any harm to you. and certainly i have no intentions ever to sleep with portia (as i mentioned earlier, she is not my type)…so, go figure.
maybe she sees you in me, or something. maybe my clothes reminds her of yours. or my sense of humor. maybe you just had a fight and she ended up here to forget. well, pretty much the worst place in the world to end up if you had broken up with a woman like you…who knows.
would you mind just stopping by and picking your wife up please? the keys are in the second pot on the front door. i just gotta go now. my publisher is about to crash this place and kick my ass.
p.s. there is milk in the fridge and coffee in the closet by the hall. help yourself.