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I found Riana cheating a long time ago.
Perhaps, I noticed how she grinned less, smirked more; how she dyed her hair peach blonde and without single complaint when I asked her to, like she was guilty, like she owed me something, or perhaps it was the day I had laser surgery of the eye and I found her no longer by my side, holding my hand like she did during Mara's heart surgery.
Mara is a cat. A chubby ginger. Nowadays, Riana decided it was best for us to get a cage, lock her up, feed her the a can of salmon everyday twice.
Riana explicitly mentioned she doesn't want to take Mara for a walk.
On a autumn evening, no less.
That should have been my first clue.
She refused to let the poor thing out, as she stretched on the velvet sofa and watched a vintage indie film, only with glassy eyes and motionless.
That day, August 2007, she wasn't tired of having to work full time in Business Development. Not just that anyway. She was tired of the dripping ceilings, the same sex position, Mara and her pathetic purring, living on rent and going to the beach and pretending it's going somewhere, somewhere good, supposedly.
Riana, my Riana. The worshipper of Sappho.
I saw her on a fine day. A bright gentle being, like the dawn of the morn, or dews of the spring.
She was clever enough to recognise I'm a poem thief. And I was there, that wicked cold night, because I had hit the writer's block like never before, like bricks collapsing on a sleeping infant - hard. My bones crunched with the lack of productivity.
But that's not what this is about. I'm here to track her advances, whereabouts.
Cut up her halter neck dress, and favourite polo shirt, and jean shorts they don't sell anymore. I'm here, standing in flesh and the dim bedroom lights of master bedroom, waiting for her before I make my next move.
I'm here because I'm going insane.
There's no such thing as homosexual infidelity. At least in the homophobic, internet dictionary there isn't.
Lesbians mate for life.
I thought so too.
That night, I was lovesick, lovestruck, in awe of the taller woman. She dropped me on the bed like one drops bombings on a whole country, or like how dirty dishes are put in under the sink; you wanna orchestrate it but at the same time, the filth gets too much for your fingernails; something has to be done.
Somebody dies.
So, I've got a friend called Misa. Says you can't snoop around your partner's belongings. Or damage their property without cheating evidence first.
Well, it's time to break one of her rules.
When you lose your trust to the sea, you cry. You cry, fall to the ground, scream at the ungodly creature above, make yourself a nice mix tape, look back through albums and decide Phoebe Bridgers was right, but right about what?
