Justice by Nawar Bashir

I try to cross my legs under the table without ripping my pantyhose on the cheap rough wooden texture.
The dress that i bought especially for this evening, clashes with the hideous florar patterns of the nylon covered chairs I’m sitting on.
What a waste.
I’ve had high hopes for tonight. I spent hours getting ready. I spent half my pay check this month on this dress figuring it’ll all be worth it.
Yet as i sit across from you, i know tonight isn’t any different. You sit there with a half interested look on your face. You keep staring at your phone like you’re afraid of it. And the familiar anger starts festering in my veins.
I thought you were taking me somewhere nice. Instead you picked a run down restaurant an hour away claiming you like their food.
Somewhere “secluded” you said.
What a dump.
As i stare around the tacky replicas of famous paintings, i hear you ask why i haven’t eaten anything.
How can i? The under cooked chicken i ordered is making me queasy. Or was i already sick of all this pretending? I can barely keep a straight face but i smile and pretend its all perfect.
I keep telling myself I need to stop this masquerading, and shed the mask I’m wearing. If you don’t like what you see so be it.
They say all is fair in love and war.
You hurt me, i hurt you…is that fair? Is it justified?
Will it make me feel better to see you hurt when i leave you?
Will your tears make my anger subside?
I want to rip ur heart out and shred it so that u feel half of what im feeling.
But the problem is…. its not fair.
Its not fair because hurting you will only make my pain worse.
Its not fair because your tears are acidic bombs falling within me.
Will the victim be pacified Did the criminal get what he deserves?
I cant.
I pretend yet again everything is fine. I shove my anger in a box in the far corners of my brain for now and impatiently wait for the check.
When you take me home you lean in to kiss me,I make up some excuse and let you go on your way…back to your wife.
I go to sleep that night thinking about how twisted the hands of fairness are. It’s hand of justice trying to fight the hand of injustice as it picks who it makes a victim, depending on who’s throat its squeezing. It doesn’t matter if the victims own hand is around someone else’s neck.

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