The Apple of My Eye

Like a Rolling Stone

While the whole Michelle thing was going on—quite a few times a week, too—things were relatively quiet on the domestic front. I'd spend most nights in the company of my beloved five-year-old daughter, who loved me unconditionally, just like I loved her, and had no trouble expressing that love.

As Loudon Wainwright III so aptly put it in song, my little girl wanted to have everything she saw, and I saw that she got everything she wanted. I have never been the kind of parent who feels guilty about having someone other than him care for his child. For one, there wasn't anyone else. Second, I cared for my child a lot. More than a lot: we didn't just spend nights together, but most weekends, too. I belonged to that little creature, first and foremost, more than she'd ever belong to me. She was my reason, my sense and sensibility, and my equipoise of the two. Whatever plans I had to spend time with this or that female, Victoria always came first. Before I'd agree to go out with anyone, I'd think of Victoria and whether I had already spent a reasonable amount of time with her that week. Not for her sake, oh no. I did it for me. It made me feel good. And it really felt great to be able to give her everything her heart desired, so why wouldn't I?

We'd play games together, she and I, I'd teach her stuff, and she'd both amuse me and amaze me with the craziest yet brightest inquiries in the world. She wanted to understand everything, and she would not settle for just about any quick answer I'd make up to get myself out of trouble. No, not my girl. After all, she was my girl, and, in that respect, she totally took after me. Curious, inquisitive, and very hard to please. I couldn't just say "okay" to her interminable stories, no. She made sure I was interested in them by asking questions to confirm that I was paying attention.

And she was ethereally beautiful, my Victoria. Which is kind of weird, because I thought she looked a lot like me, too. In fact, everybody thought so. No, all kidding aside, she did look amazing. But when she smiled her sweetest, most innocent smile, she was a dead ringer for her mother, no two ways about it. Her mother in the good old days, that is. When my world consisted of only her, when Victoria wasn't even around, and nothing else mattered.

Chloe, to whom I shall continue to refer as "my wife" for now—we hadn't even begun to discuss the divorce settlement yet—was fairly contented with the way things were going, at least the way she thoughtthings were going. For one, she didn't mind my baby girl choosing me over her at all times, every day of the week. By spending lots of time with her daddy, Victoria kept an eye on me for her mom, who was very confident this was only a phase and it would soon be over. She believed it wouldn't be long before I realized what a daft mistake I'd made and went back home to her, to the two of them. This was not something I assumed. This was something I knew. She'd told me so a number of times.

The thing is, I did think of our marriage as over and done, but I never thought we had to be over and done, too. We had a little girl together. I knew we'd always be inextricably bound.

But I must confess there was something else happening between Chloe and me that sort of explains why she nurtured her aforementioned beliefs. It started out slow, picked up certain momentum, and was now becoming a little bit of a routine. You see, what happened was, she had the keys to my apartment, right? And my daughter spent most nights there with me, so it wasn't unusual for Chloe to go pick her up in the morning, even when Victoria and I were still asleep.

What she chose to do one morning was wake me up instead. And she did it in the most unmistakable of manners: by fondling my most prized appendage, which, in all fairness, needed little stimulus at this hour to wake up. The problem was, the darn thing often woke up with such high oomph levels that it sort of consumed all the blood supply my brain could use, too. (I've often wondered whether boners really inhibit decision making, as lore would have you believe. I don't think they do, but I kind of choose to say that they do in order to justify the poor decisions I make whenever I'm aroused.)

I was positive I had done the right thing by leaving home. I was one hundred percent sure I was not going to go back. I did not want to go back. But what was happening here was just so damn convenient, you know? It was early morning, I found myself in the comfort of my home, I had to make no effort whatsoever, all I needed to do was lie still and enjoy it. And as much as I knew I should not have gone along with it, I did. And more than just that one time, too.

It sent out the wrong message, it fed hopes that should not have been fed, hopes that should have been left to starve. I know, I know. There were only drawbacks to what I was doing—or, rather, to what I was letting be done. (Oh, somebody stop me, who am I kidding?) I was letting self-gratification and immediate satisfaction be the rulers of my choices, and I was letting my weaknesses turn into my choices. Or, in a nutshell, I just wasn't thinking.

Chloe seemed to have no idea I was seeing other girls. And here I was, seeing a lot of other girls. But since I never brought any of them home with me, she just presumed I was taking a sabbatical from all the fooling around to be able to sort out my feelings. No girl ever spent the night in my place, so that must mean I had no one in my life, she pondered. Not at all illogical, if you ask me. But inaccurate. Yet I didn't say anything. I just let her think whatever she wanted to because (a) I didn't want to get into another fight, and (b) it was just so expedient a solution to have her indulge me like that on a regular basis. She wasn't seeing anyone, she was risk-free, she was in excellent physical shape, she was vigorous, she was clean, and she knew what buttons to push. It made her happy, it saved me time, it didn't spoil my plans, and it didn't cause me any immediate problems. I could revel in the thrill of the chase all I wanted without ever committing to any one girl. Meanwhile, I could enjoy the sexual benefits of a steady relationship without really being committed to that one woman, either. It was selfish as fuck, I tell you. I'm not proud of it. But that's what I did.

And it's not even fair to be telling this story from my point of view only, I'm well aware. How did Chloe feel about all this? Did it really make her happy? Did she hate the whole dynamics of the thing but couldn't help herself? Did she cry at night in the emptiness of the bed she had once shared with me? What about my daughter? Was she really oblivious to it all? Was she really okay with her mom and dad living in different places and her practically having to commute to spend time with one and the other?

Back then, I just didn't care. I thought I was doing my best with whatever circumstances presented themselves to me, I really did.

I wanted it all. And I wanted it now.