Dear Writers and Readers,

We noticed some less-than-exemplary behavior on Prose today, which forced us to take action against some users. This is a gentle reminder that, while we try to remain as uncensored as possible, some forms of content are simply intolerable. Please note the following passage from our Terms of Service, under Prohibited Content:

Content that is unlawful, libelous, defamatory, obscene, pornographic, indecent, lewd, suggestive, harassing, threatening, abusive, inflammatory, fraudulent or otherwise objectionable, or invasive of privacy or publicity rights;

In today’s case, harassment was the keyword. We have taken steps to punish infringing users, and prevent future infringements. Note that we will not be adjudicating arguments, disagreements, or squabbles between users, unless we deem the language used to be grossly abusive or inflammatory.

1. We have added a report button to all posts. You’ll find the button in the lower-right options menu (indicated by an ellipsis icon) of every post. If you encounter a post that violates the Terms of Service, please report it.

2. We have instituted a temporary posting restriction policy against first-time offenders. If we find that you have been harassing folks, spamming, or posting any other sort of Prohibited Content, you will be prevented from posting, commenting, and sending messages for a minimum of three days. Repeat offenders will be permanently banned.

3. We have added an internal feature to remove offensive posts. Posts that violate our Terms of Service, or that provoke grossly abusive or toxic comment threads, will be marked as such and removed after 24 hours. During that period, commenting on such posts will be disabled.

Refer to Section 10 of our Terms of Service for all forms of Prohibited Content: https://theprose.com/p/legal/terms

Happy Writes,

The Prose Team

     “The difference is, I lie for a reason.”

     Ali’s words were clear and concise, cutting through the lunch hour chatter of the restaurant like a stainless steel blade.

     Robert looked into her face, void of emotion. Her green eyes used to sparkle when she smiled at him. But now, he studied her as if she was some unknown exotic species discovered for the first time.

     She continued to stare him down, silent and unwavering.

     “What are you talking about? Lies? What lies?”

     Ali’s behavior over the past couple of weeks had been erratic at best. Pleasant conversations took sudden detours into dark places, ending in soliloquies of a brooding nature. Hours later, her jovial attitude made the earlier encounter seem like a fleeting nightmare one couldn’t quite remember upon waking. Robert was aware that hormonal shifts could be more pronounced as women aged, but this was bordering on bipolar.

     “Your entire life is built on lies,” she snapped. “I thought it was a harmless game at first, watching you manipulate others by telling them what they want to hear: your friends, your colleagues, your employees. You lie like you breathe: effortlessly.”

     “Why are you—“

     “Let me finish,” she interrupted. Another pause. “I have been with you for three years. I had so much hope for the future. I fed off your passion; it was a drug to me. But now I see you for who you really are: A con artist, preying on everyone who crosses his path to get what he wants. Including me."

     Every sentence, every word was cold and robotic. The lack of emotion was more disturbing to Robert than the words themselves. He had a thick skin--he had to, given the nature of his business. But dealing with this shell of a person whom he knew intimately was something otherworldly.

     Ali sat perfectly still, unblinking, waiting for Robert to respond. His confusion quickly turned to annoyance as he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.

     “Look, Ali, I don’t know what’s got your panties in a wad. But I’m tired of your irrational accusations.” Robert pushed his chair back from the table and rose to his feet.     “This conversation is over.”

     Ali reached into her purse and produced a candy bar-sized item in a pink and white metallic wrapper.

     “Perhaps I wasn’t being clear.” She slid the item across the table, glaring at him the entire time.

     Robert reached down, picked it up and pulled back the already opened wrapper to see what was inside.

     “I wasn’t implying that I’m perfect and you’re not. What I’m saying is, you lie casually. It’s your way of life. I, on the other hand, lie...but for different reasons. Big reasons. Like the one you’re holding in your hand.”

     Ali smirked, showing the first sign of human emotion as the gravity of the situation was realized in Robert’s expression.

     “I lie to Tom all the time,” Ali said. “I tell my husband it’s okay that he’s unemployed, and that I understand he’s looking really hard for a job. I also lie and say it doesn’t bother me that he has a low sperm count, and that we can’t have children. I smile and pretend that it’s all okay, because, what choice do I have?”

     Robert stood like a statue now, white as alabaster.

     “I lie and tell Tom, ‘It’s a miracle! We are finally going to have a child together!’ Well, we are going to have a child together. It’s just not his.”

     Ali slowly stood up, both fists on the table supporting her weight as she leaned into Robert.

     “You have used people your whole life to get what you want. Now it’s my turn to get what I want: The child I could never have, the family I’ve always dreamed of...with a promotion comfortable enough to support the three of us. I’m sure that can be arranged. Right, Senator?”

“Well, as someone who’s never done drugs, how could you possibly know he was doing drugs?” Jen, my no-nonsense red-headed therapist asked, rather matter-of-factly. That was how she asked questions – firmly, yet kindly. Self-guided therapy at its finest.

I kept it – my account – brief. An hour session couldn’t even begin to scratch the surface of the sordid details of my past relationship. Also, I was anxious to get to the meat of the issue: Why did I torture myself for six years?

Between my chronic illness and my quest to figure out what’s “wrong” with me, my life had become a series of doctors’ offices – particularly this one with its “calm your clients” blue walls – and traffic-cone orange bottles containing pills of all shapes and sizes. On this week’s menu is a pill that’s pea-soup green and slightly larger than the head of one of the colorful thumbtacks that held up pictures of her smiling, toothless toddler.

I note that the green pill seems to be working because I’m feeling less despondent and more normal (whatever that means). However, I had to take the oblong white pill on Easter to prevent an impending panic attack. That happens a lot these days.

Anyway, I considered that what she said was very logical. But something was still gnawing at me, like a lion to a raw, bloody steak… How could you be with someone for six years and not realize they have a drug habit? It was maddening.

At twenty-eight, I’m happily married to another man and we have a daughter. I have a house, a job as a writer, I’m a licensed foster parent, and I do lots of volunteer work. I’m generally happy.

It’s been seven years since I’ve seen or spoken to my ex-boyfriend, but here I am – seven years later – trying to make sense of this. Whatever this was.

See, most people have it wrong.

They believe that infidelity begins with a look from across a room, a smile… an innocent introduction. Often, that’s true. Infidelity doesn’t have to be physical, though; I’ve realized that over the years.

It doesn’t have to start with a look in your direction, a shy smile, or seemingly harmless flirting over text while your spouse is asleep next to you. (It never is innocent, by the way).

Infidelity can come in the form of porn, video games, or Facebook. Infidelity can come in the form of a needle, powder, or liquid (a $200 per weekend bar tab while your laughably naive girlfriend is away at college believing you got a second job and were working on going back to school).

Maybe she believed that you could have had a life together – get married and live happily ever after. Maybe she trusted you. Maybe she didn’t feel like she needed to question your every move because she was living out of state and wanted so badly to believe you. But you were seeing someone else.

The mistress doesn’t always have blonde hair and fake tits.

Sometimes, there’s no look across a crowded room.

No… Sometimes, she’s behind a screen and will like you more for a few dollars, at the bottom of a bottle, or can be snorted through a rolled-up dollar bill.

So, I finally reply. “I guess you’re right. I just feel like I should have known… but he kept the drugs, drinking, and parties secret from me.”

And secrets hurt – physically like you’ve been punched in the gut.

I continued with my story – about that night when I was alone in my college dorm’s bathroom. I just sat there and cried. When I called to tell him what happened, there were accusations, arguing. Deflection, probably.

Then, the following morning, I found out about her. An actual woman – barely nineteen with dark hair and brown eyes. In an ironic twist of – whatever – her name was Hope.

Infidelity is usually a person. In my case, there was always another person. Why was I surprised?

How long has this been going on? Oh, right… I should be more specific. How long have you been “dating” Hope? Was she the “other woman” or was I? I the better part of six years of my life to you. How could you do this to me?

“How long was that going on?” she asked, tapping her pen on the clipboard.

Two months. At least, this time. In hindsight, there were others – I know there were. I always knew.

The last time we spoke, I told him that I could continue this cycle a million times over because I loved him, but I wasn’t going to anymore.

And to rot in hell. (This was the nice thing to say considering the lying, cheating, secrets, and mental and emotional abuse).

Then, I met my husband two months later. He truly picked up my pieces and I helped put me back together. Most of the time, I don’t even think about my ex-boyfriend.

My therapist commended me on my resilience (since she knows more about me than almost anyone) and some other things – I wasn’t really listening. As I left, I asked if I should contact him and apologize for how things were left.

“What good would that do? What would that accomplish?”

She’s right.

Wherever he is I just Hope he found help or what he was looking for.

I Hope he’s happy in hell.

Shall I compare thee to my summer bae?

Thou art more bangin' and less of a bitch.

She slashed my tires because she is cray,

And left me with naught but a pubic itch.

Sometime too hot my one-eyed flesh burns,

And often does a strange liquid he secrete;

I fear it's time this pained young man learns

To consult a pelvic specialist who is discreet.

But our union shall avoid such a grim fate,

For nothing can taint our purest of love;

As long as before I unlock your satin gate,

I duly remember to slip on a latex glove.

    So long as I feel discomfort when I pee,     

    So long I wrap it up when I give you the D.