A Collection of Imagines

John

I'm done

I really want to get the fuck out of here. This is complete and utter torture. Why did I get myself into this? I knew that this would be a possibility. I took this job will the full understanding that this could fucking happen. Why am I so mad now?

She looks absolutely furious. Like she might attack me at any second. And yeah, I'm severely scared. But I have to do this. It's the right thing. My grip on my wife's hand tightens, but my eyes don't leave hers.

What did you think was going to happen? That he was going to leave his wife and cave into the "relationship" with you? Wow, how naive are you? You're just a fucking assistant. You make him coffee, fill out some paperwork, and occasionally give him a hand job. Nothing more.

I shift in my seat. I'm wildly uncomfortable right now. My wife is completely oblivious to the fact that my assistant is staring daggers at me. The woman at my side leans in to put her head on my shoulder as she listens to my manager speak about my next project. She nods along, smiling at certain ideas. God, please stop staring at me like that!

I don't know who I'm more mad at. Him, bringing his wife to a fucking meeting or me, thinking that he wouldn't. I expected him to show up alone and sit next to me. Later on into the night, he would place his hand on my thigh and gradually go up my dress. Why am I such an idiot?!

I have to do this! I want to shout at her at the top of my lungs in this god damned restaurant. She's my wife! You're my assistant, this is how it's supposed to be! I can't stress enough how much I want her to understand. I guess I'll pay for it later.

She nods slowly at his manager's word and trails her hand back and forth on his thigh. I feel like I'm going to projectile vomit everywhere. What the fuck?! Why am I still fucking here? Why did I ever think he actually cared about me?

She abruptly stands up from the table, grabs her coat, tells my manager that she's not feeling well, and speed walks towards the door. Where the fuck does she thinks she's going?

Once I turn my back towards the table, I let the tears fall. You're an idiot, an idiot, an absolute mother fucking idiot! The people in the other tables turn their heads in my direction. I don't fucking care about them. The only eyes I care about are staring at the back of my head as I grab the door handle.

My eyes glare into the back of her head, but I don't get up. She furiously opens the exit door and slams it behind her. I try my best to match the confused expressions at the table. But I know exactly what's going on.

I'm quitting. That's it. I'm fucking out of that place. I won't allow him to suck me back in. I won't even give him my notice, I'll give it to his manager. My heels click against the cement of the New York side walk. The cold air strikes my bare legs as I try to speed walk down the street. God, why did I wear these fucking heels? Why do I keep asking myself questions? I already know what the answer is.

I shift in my seat. My wife is asking too many questions about the sudden outburst. I deny even knowing anything about her. I know I have to. Wait ... why though? I'm not happy. I'm happy with her. And why should I lie about that? No. I can't. I can't.

I don't know what I'm going to do after this. I'll be fine considering I won't be around him anymore.

I can't deal with this right now. She just walked out and I have no idea how she's going to get home. Fuck, I worry about her too much. I get this heavy feeling in my chest. It's the same feeling whenever I'm alone or with my wife. Empty. Holy fuck, she's what makes me whole! It's all her! Why haven't I figured this out until now? Shit, what am I still doing here?

I pull out my phone and pug in my address to my apartment. I'm only two blocks away now. I cannot spend more money on transport, considering I'm spending too much now, so I'll just walk the rest of the way. For some reason, I feel like something was lifted off of me. Like a weight that was holding me down. I feel free in this cold weather. I hear his voice coming up behind me. Shit.

As soon as I get out of the restaurant, I punch in her address into my phone. I know that she would probably walk there because I know she's broke. I can't count how many times I have offered her something to help her out, but she won't have it. I take off running immediately after I receive the directions. Why did I ever think that I can live without her? I keep running until I turn a corner to her street and there she is. Clutching her body, trying to make herself warmer as she tries to walk down the street in those shoes that she's wearing. I call out her name and she freezes.

I'm not backing down. I'm not backing down. ... just keep walking. Why the fuck is he here?

After a second without turning around to face me, she begins to walk forward again. I run up to her and grab her arm to try and force to look at me. "Hey—," but as I try to speak I suddenly feel this pain across my cheek. She ... she slapped me? She fucking slapped me.

I slapped him. Yeah. He can't touch me like that anymore. "Don't touch me, okay?" I move back with my hands up in a surrender. Watching him place his hand on his cheek. "I'm done." I place them down to my sides and begin to walk forward again. "I'm done." I have already made up my mind.

She fucking slapped me. I can't wrap my head around it. But, nonetheless, here I am on this cold street with my hand on my jaw and my mouth agape. I'm watching the only woman that has ever made me feel something slip through my fingers with fear driven eyes.