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Hate That I Love You

She makes me so frustrated it’s almost inhuman.

I hate that she smells like strawberries and winter and her complexion is the color of rosebuds in springtime. I hate that she looks just as beautiful in my NFL t-shirt as she does in makeup and a Prada dress. I hate the way her blonde hair glimmers in the sunlight like gold. I hate the way her sea-blue eyes sparkle when she gets happy. I hate the color of her eyes, blue and calm like a drugged sky. I hate the little gasp of air she inhales when she’s excited, I hate the curve of her nose and the dip of her waist and the fact her skin feels like silk underneath my fingertips. I hate the way she kisses me, seductive and coy, and I hate the way she fucks, all dominant and demanding. I hate the way her skin tastes when I lick it. I hate the way her mouth crashes against mine and the way her hips feel pressed against me. 

When she calls me and her voice is husky underneath the sound of alcohol and she demands my presence at her apartment right now, I hate that I don’t even hesitate to grab a coat. 

When she grabs me around the waist and runs her hand along my chest, I hate how excited it makes me. I hate how the taste of her can’t be expelled from my brain and how my wife doesn’t suspect a thing. I hate the guilt that comes with every kiss I steal and every time I look at my kids. I hate that when I’m fucking my wife, it’s her name I want to scream. I hate Jack for introducing us and I hate Time for keeping us apart. I hate Fate for giving her to me too late and I hate God for little ironies, like that her name is Isabel and my wife's is Isabella. 

I hate Life for making me let her go, and I hate work for not being able to spend every waking minute with her. I hate myself for the pain I cause her and I hate her for the pain she causes me.

I hate the way our bodies fit together like a jigsaw puzzle, all curves and edges and supple skin and olive complexions. The way her head nestles so perfectly in the crook of my chest and her hand fits so sweetly in mine. The sound of her heartbeat when we sleep together in the most innocent sense of the word. No fucking. Nothing risqué about it at all, just two lost souls desperately clinging to each other and to get back to shore.

Above all, I hate that I love her. 

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