CHAPTER ONE
Behind every cheating wife is a neglectful husband.
Ask around, everyone knows it’s true.
How do I know? I have been harboring thoughts about two-timing my negligent husband for several weeks now--I just haven’t found the right man yet.
I don’t want just anyone--I want a man I can connect with in a powerful, sensual way, one who can take my body and soul to a height that has never been attained. A hot, sexy hunk who can make me feel whole again, because my heart has been in pieces for a long, long time.
Is it right for a minister’s wife--a woman of God-- to be entertaining these thoughts? Probably not, but the last time I checked, I’m still human, and I have needs.
I sat in the pew of the church during our gospel service, feeling restless, glancing at the clock every now and then, and willing the hands to move faster. I was exhausted. After pulling an eight-hour shift at work, I had cleaned the house and braved the Saturday evening crowd in the rough and dirty market downtown to get some grocery shopping done. Afterwards I had gotten home, feeling dead on my feet and looking forward to a night of rest and relaxation-- then my husband reminded me that tonight was the final night for our evangelistic crusade, and it was my duty to be present.
I could have cried.
Being a minister’s wife isn’t easy. My husband, Bruce Sterling is an Associate Pastor of the Queen’s Hill Church of God, a postmodern, dynamic church located in the heart of Sunrise Hills, a quiet upscale community. Being a pastor’s wife meant putting on the persona of a vibrant, radical partner, regardless of the fact that you may feel the opposite. It meant sacrificing many evenings that you would rather spend curled up on your living room couch, watching reruns of The Golden Girls. Instead you’ll have to be front and center, right by their side.
The need for sleep was increasing with every agonizing minute; my eyelids felt like a ten-pound weight was on them and the muscles of my eyelids were twitching from fatigue.
In an attempt to stay awake, I turned my attention to my husband on the pulpit pacing back and forth, his Bible in his hand and his voice, which was normally soft, boomed out from his six foot, two-hundred-pound frame, which overwhelmed the span of the pulpit. His face and shirt were dripping with sweat, and it dawned on me that since lately, these were the only times I have seen my husband sweat; when he was preaching God’s word.
He is committed to ‘feeding the flock’-- his words-- five days a week and twice on Sundays. I can’t help but think that it’s such a pity he isn’t as committed to pleasuring me.
We make love on average twice per month, three times if I am lucky, and his performance has become mediocre, at best. I have become the sole initiator of sex in our relationship and I have experienced rejection from Bruce more times than I can count. I was so sexually frustrated I took to masturbating; I even have an eight-inch friend in the bottom of my underwear drawer that has become a constant source of release.
A sudden uproar brought my mind back to the present. The church was on fire, the entire congregation was on its feet shouting praises and getting into the Spirit. I quickly stood up and closed my eyes to appear as if I was in the Spirit as well. The exaltation went on until well past midnight, but no-one seemed to mind. At that point, it was all about God.
The service ended on a high note, with everyone lagging behind afterwards as if they did not want to leave. Almost everyone was like family, and church provided an opportunity for them to fellowship and, to a greater extent, gossip.
After the service I greeted some of the members, and then quietly leaned against a red brick column at the front of the church to wait for Bruce while he chatted with Cary Samuels, our tall skinny Deacon who had a big belly which was rumored to be the result of long hours spent at the local sports bar. No one had ever thought to investigate the rumor, but it was almost evident from Cary’s consistently inebriated composition that it was probably true, as he sometimes staggered into the church long after the beginning of each service. His conduct soon caught the attention of our Pastor and when he was confronted, Cary blamed his behavior on the effects of a medication he was taking for arthritis---although he was only thirty-six years old.
No one believed him, of course.
There was also another rumor that Cary had started drinking when Bruce was appointed to the post of Associate Pastor, which was a position that he had hoped to inherit from his late father who was the predecessor. Cary had his sights set on the post ever since he found out through his father how lucrative the title was. Unlike his father, however, he had no interest in serving the people; all he wanted was the benefits that came with the job.
Everyone speculated that he still had his sights set on the post so they were all suspicious of his friendship with Bruce. I was wary of him as well and I warned Bruce against letting him get too close to him. Of course, he didn’t listen, and now they are best buddies.
It was a regular occurrence for Bruce to be caught up in conversation with Cary for ages after church, as Bruce had never learned how to politely sidestep him when he would come eagerly shuffling with his big belly pulling him forward. Cary could carry a conversation for hours—Bruce had better put a lid on it!
I was beginning to get annoyed at Bruce’s unlimited patience when I heard footsteps behind me and turned around. Immediately my blood went cold. My annoyance at Bruce dissipated and was immediately replaced by a rush of anger, and a feeling of hate rushed through my veins.
The object of my anger stood looking at me, her hands placed on both of her meagre hips, a look of mischief stamped on her broad face. I tensed immediately, as I knew her presence was bad news.
Patricia Mullings was my worst enemy; a woman I loathed with every fiber of my being. It was no secret that the feeling was mutual.
It all started in our teenage years. Patricia was a couple years older than I was, but she felt the need to compete with me anyway, and she wanted everything I had. If I liked a guy, she would flirt with him, giggling and jutting her huge breasts (they were oversized, in my opinion). Of course, the idiots would be lost; ogling at her vast monstrosities as if they had never seen a pair of breasts before.
If I bought a new dress or skirt, sure enough Patricia would show up a few days later in the same style----which was normally a total flop, as she had no curves to fill out the kind of clothes that I wore. There was constant competition between us, which seemed normal and innocent.
Or so I thought.
It was an incident that happened a few years ago that made me hate Patricia to the core. My parents migrated to the States, and since I just had started my first degree in tourism and hotel management at the local university, I had chosen to stay with my uncle John Paul, my mother’s youngest brother who lived in the city, instead of leaving with them. Since I did not own a car he became my ‘chauffeur’ and he would take me to church on Sundays and on some days when I had meetings to attend.
Before long, people began to get curious, as John Paul ’s car was heavily tinted and they could not see his face when he would drop me off at the church gate. Naturally, everyone began to enquire about the mysterious driver. Patricia, seeing a chance to humiliate me, told everyone that he was my boyfriend and that we were shacking up.
This was unknown to me at first.
One Sunday morning I was with the choir getting ready to sing for the second offering. As Sister Blake got up to pray, the congregation started to get into the Spirit, most particularly Sister Ruthie. She wriggled, twisted and flailed her arms as she spun, around and around, her face contorted while her mouth uttered a different language. Then she stopped, looking at the podium where the youth choir stood, and headed straight towards us. I thought nothing of it until she started chanting:
“The Lord can’t work in a dirty vessel! You are too bold, wanting to live a dirty lifestyle and desecrating the holy dwelling! Get down, presumptuous spirit!”
While chanting this, she stomped her way to the podium, approached me and grabbed my hand, pulling me as she made her way back to the congregation.
At first, I thought of resisting, but realized it would make matters worse so I just allowed her to pull me along. My face burned with shame as the church members stared at me in disgust. She pulled me right to the back row and pushed me forcefully into one of the seats while still chanting in the Spirit. I wanted to cry but I held my head high and withstood the judgmental stares from the congregation. I was confused; I did not know why Sister Ruthie chose to pick on me as I did not do anything wrong. Dirty vessel? This can’t be about the drink I had at C-Bar on Friday, I thought. C-Bar was a local sports bar and grill that catered to a young and raunchy crowd. I went there against my better judgment, just to prove to my best friend that I wasn’t a ‘church mouse’.
I tried to sneak out before the service ended, but Pastor Rankine was lay-waiting me on the back porch. With a stern expression, he beckoned me to follow him as he waddled to his study. On entering, he gestured to indicate that I should have a seat. He successfully squeezed his oversized frame into a chair that was built for someone a hundred pounds lighter and stared at me for what seemed like hours. I shifted in my seat uncomfortably.
“There are rumors going around that you live with a man, Anya,” he finally spoke, wiping perspiration from his face. Although the cold air was gusting through the vents of the air conditioner, Pastor Rankine’s shirt was soaked with sweat. “Is it true?”
I sat in shock, my skin tingling, and for a moment was at loss for words. He waited expectantly.
“Where would you hear such a thing, Pastor?”
“You did not answer the question.”
“With all due respect, I refuse to answer until I know who told you so.”
“It is not important for you to know how I got this information,” he replied.
“I refuse to answer until you tell me who gave you this information, Pastor,” I said again, a touch defiantly. I wanted to rip the liar---whoever they were-- in pieces.
He sighed dramatically. “In that case, I have no choice but to ban you from participating in any church activities until you get your life straightened out. You are a promising young woman, Anya, and the Lord needs you to do his work. So, you need to let go of the things that are hindering you from serving God.”
I did not respond. My blood was boiling. I waited until he said; “you may go,” then I got up and stomped out.
For months I did not attend church. I ignored the calls and messages from various church members enquiring about why I was absent-- I knew some of them just wanted to find out if the rumor was true. I battled with bitterness and anger against the church, and I was even angrier when I found out that Patricia was the one who started the gossip.
I was raving mad, and wanted to confront her, but my best friend, Kemona who is not even a Christian, compelled me to quell my anger.
“She’s not worth it,” she said simply. I thought about it and decided to let it go. She’ll get hers, I thought. Karma is a bitch.
It took me two years before I recommitted myself to the church. Initially, I detested everyone and alienated myself from them. The truth about my relationship with the ‘driver’ came to light, and I received an apology from Pastor Rankine and Sister Ruthie. It took me a while to forgive them, but eventually I got over the whole incident.
For the most part, that is.
My anger and hate towards Patricia did not recede.
Now I looked at her and made no attempt to hide my contempt. I hated her even more now, for I had begun to realize that she has a thing for my husband. She’s always giving my husband this “take me and ravish me” look, even when I am beside him.
“What do you want?” I asked, before she could open her mouth.
“Nothing,” she responded slyly, “I’m just saying hi. You look lonely, Anya.”
“And that matters to you because…?” I asked, gritting my teeth.
“It doesn’t, but isn’t it the Christian thing to do, to see if you are okay?”
I did not respond.
She stood assessing me for a moment, then turned to walk away, stopped, and then turned back to me.
“Although... Mhmmm...” She raised a finger enquiringly.
“What is it, Patricia?” I was already annoyed.
“I am just a little worried. I notice that Bruce is here every night. Is everything alright at home?”
For a moment I was speechless. The nerve of this woman! How inquisitive! I made to tell her what I thought of her but I remembered where I was. I took a deep breath and responded contemptuously. “Things are fine, Patricia.”
She gave a deep sigh, with an obviously fake look of concern. “I really hope so. I hope you’re treating him right. Forgive me if this sounds out of place, but I know a lot of women would love to be in your position.” Including me, her attitude said.
“‘My position’ is irreplaceable, so I hope those women aren’t getting their hopes up.” I answered saucily. “Bruce and I are fine,” I repeated, almost biting my tongue with the lie.
She sauntered away with a sly smile, as if she knew the truth.
I sighed. The last thing I needed was for my personal affairs to become public news. As much as I love my church brethren I have to admit that they are some real gossip whores, and the most judgmental persons I know.
Being a member of the church for the past twenty years, I have come to understand and tolerate the various personalities of the members, especially the women. Everyone had their own cliques, and they stuck together.
There were the “holier-than-thous”—the women who acted as if they were handpicked by God for some special assignment. They are the chief judges of the church; none of them are married as they have decided to return to God the same way they came. They always wore long skirts and long-sleeved blouses and their hair was always covered. I don’t know how they survive in the oppressive heat that assaults every inch of your body the minute you step outside. The climate in Sunrise Hills is normally one that tempts you to wear a tank top and shorts at all times.
They are always early, they have ‘reserved’ seats at the front rows of the church, and every other church member knew never to sit in those seats. Once, there was an incident where a ‘backslider’ came to visit during our Sunday morning service and sat in Sister Bernadette’s seat. She arrived shortly afterwards and stood beside her seat, glaring down at him with her hands placed squarely on her oversized hips and tapping her foot lightly, until the usher came and escorted the man to another seat in the middle of the church. Her indignant expression followed him to his new seat.
They were very territorial.
I guess the word was spread after the incident, for no one else dared to sit in the front rows of the church.
On special Sundays, such as Christmas and Easter, there was normally a huge influx of visitors, and Pastor Rankine would instruct the ushers to ask members of the church to exchange their ‘good seats’ for temporary seats placed in the aisle to accommodate the increase of the congregation. This was done in an effort to make the guests as comfortable as possible, for the aisle was extremely hot, as there were no fans installed in the center of the church. Most of the members would give up their seats without hesitation, with the intention of impressing upon the visitors that they were extremely hospitable. However, the holier-than-thous would never budge. They would ignore the signals from the ushers by turning their heads in the opposite direction, until the ushers would give up in exasperation.
Next were the resident fashionistas. We were the elite set that ‘carried the swing’ in the church, which meant we wore the latest trends and were always ‘on point’. On the other hand, many of us were sanctioned for our ‘fitted’ clothing, some more than others. There was one time when I wore a beautiful white skirt with an embroidered hem, one that, unfortunately, clung to my curves and rode up my hips continuously. I was already self-conscious about it when the Pastor’s wife, Sister Gladys, came by and pulled it down. I was so ashamed, and my shame grew further when she said sternly, “You are a child of God, young woman, dress accordingly.” The shame was more intensified due to the fact that in my eyes, Sister Gladys was a woman of class and connections (she had regular lunches with the Prime Minister’s wife). I wanted to remain in her good graces. From then, I ensured that I was appropriately attired for church.
There were some church sisters who did not care, though, and wore whatever they wanted, regardless of who was offended. Some wore sleeveless dresses that revealed their underarms when they raised their hands to say ‘hallelujah’, and most often, they were badly in need of a shave. The white, cakey deodorant that was tangled with the overgrown hairs was disgusting to behold. They, however, seemed oblivious to the offended stares that were thrown their way whenever they raised their hands in praise.
Next, there were the ‘certified’ gossipers, a group of women who, in my opinion suffered from low self-esteem. It was a running joke that they must have gone to university or college to gain some expertise in gossiping because they knew how to find every scandal, dissect it and spread it to any gossip-loving audience they could find. They were the go-to persons for confirmation on whether ‘hear-says’ were true. They are sure to know what’s up, and if they didn’t know about it, trust me, it wasn’t worth knowing. They were close friends of the holier-than-thous.
Their ringleader, Crystal was like a vulture, circling the carcasses of people’s troubled relationships and diving to scoop up the remains, ingesting whatever information she could find until she had an eager audience to which to spill the details.
There was also the ‘politics’; it was said that Pastor Rankine only gave the high-tier responsibilities to members who had connections or had a “high-class” background. I guess it coincided with the fact that they threw a bigger offering than the others. The higher class were given roles on the planning and business committees, while those of a humbler background were given the duties to serve the lunches, and to stand on the street corners to ‘witness’ to unbelievers.
Despite the segregation we are one big family, and like any other family there is bound to be a little hypocrisy and jealousy among us. Little did I knew that those feelings were being nurtured within a particular person into something far worse than I could ever imagine.
As far as everyone is concerned Bruce and I have the perfect marriage. Even though the reality is the total opposite of what they believe, I’m in no hurry to ruin the illusion. Thankfully, Bruce came along before anyone else could tell me how lucky I was, or how grateful I should be to have a dream for a husband. If they only knew!
I did everything right- I got baptized and saved my virginity until I was married, but for what?
Bruce and I met during a church retreat when I was in my late teens. He was a youth director who was in charge of managing the young people in my age group. Almost instantly I fell head over heels in love with him. I remember the first day he stepped into the assembly hall to address us, and his smile had my stomach doing flip flops. It was so sudden; there was no way to explain why I felt the way I did. As he spoke, his lips parted to reveal a small gap between his front teeth, which added a bit of sexiness to his smile. He sauntered around the room as he talked, his voice as smooth as silk. I was in a trance.
In my mind, he was perfect for me; his muscular features revealed the figure of a man who was physically active, his hair had loose highlighted curls that made me want to run my hand through them. I could hardly focus when he was around and did everything in my power to get his attention as much as possible. Unfortunately, my feelings weren’t reciprocated; I guess he thought I was too young at the time. I left the youth retreat heartbroken and determined to overcome whatever feelings I thought I had developed for him.
However, three years later he returned to the church for a minister’s conference, and every feeling that I thought I had buried came rushing back. He had changed; he now sported a beard and he was taller and more handsome than ever.
It was at that point that I made up my mind that I had to have him.
I was the assistant to the youth leader of the church at that time, so I ensured to have his name included in the list of speakers for our youth meetings which meant he was there often. We became friends and would frequently hang out after church. He was normally too wound up to sleep and we would sit and talk for hours about nothing, and everything. I fell even more in love with him. I admired his love and selflessness for others and the time he spent to improve the lives of people who were less fortunate than he was.
Little did I know it would come back to haunt me.
His visits became so frequent that the national overseer decided to transfer him to our church as a junior minister. I was elated, although I had to spend months warding off the vultures that existed in the form of other single church sisters—including Patricia--who were desperate for a husband. It was worth the effort, for we grew closer, and one night after he drove me home from church, he kissed me.
The kiss took me by surprise and I pulled away, although I quickly recovered and responded tentatively at first, as the only experience I had was a few quick smooches with a high school boyfriend. Without a doubt, it was everything I had imagined. His lips were warm and firm and his mouth moist, gently moistening and massaging my own. His tongue skillfully licked into my mouth, tasting me, and I almost lost myself. Instinctively I sucked on his tongue and he groaned, making the flesh between my legs tighten in response.
I allowed my hands to roam just as how I had daydreamed, touching his firm, muscular chest and his hard abs. I felt a surge of boldness and my hand travelled even farther south to find the zipper of his pants, before he jumped away as if he was burned.
“This isn’t right, Anya,” he said with a look that resembled a child who had gotten caught stealing.
I was a bit disappointed and taken aback, but since I was a virgin, I knew that my first time could not be in the back of Bruce’s car. Besides, my principles would not allow me to have sex with anyone outside the confines of marriage; so, I chose to remain untouched, waiting for the right man to come along and pick my over-ripe cherry. I really hoped the right man was Bruce.
Bruce sighed and turned the air conditioning on to cool us down, shifting the front of his jeans to find some room for the huge bulge in his pants that was making him uncomfortable.
“Have you ever had sex, Anya? He asked suddenly.
I felt my face get hot, embarrassment flooding me. I was certain that my response would have him hightailing it out of my life. Most men, Christian or otherwise, would prefer a woman that’s already ‘broken in’--at least that’s what I’ve heard.
“No, I haven’t,” I answered truthfully.
He smiled, and I was filled with relief. It wasn’t a bad thing, after all.
“That’s good.” A beat. “I have, though,” he admitted sheepishly.
“For how long?” I asked, not surprised.
“Five years ago,” he responded. “I gave my virginity to a married woman.” His eyes were cautious as he watched me digest the news.
Now I was shocked! Bruce Sterling, committed servant of God, with an adulterer! I tried to put the judgmental feelings aside, but I could not help seeing him in a different light. Based on his physical appeal I guessed that he had lost his virginity a long time ago, but to know that he committed what was-- to me, an unforgivable sin: sleeping with a married woman!
“I hope this doesn’t change anything between us,” he said, as if reading my mind. “That was a long time ago; I was young and stupid. I’m not that person anymore.”
I guess I could look past it, I thought. He’s human, isn’t he? We all make mistakes and learn from them.
I touched him reassuringly. “It doesn’t change anything, Bruce,” I smiled at him.
“I’m glad. And I don’t want us to rush things either. I want to do things the right way.”
A few months later, I found out what he meant by ‘doing things the right way’. In the middle of the Sunday church service, Bruce called me to the front of the church. He looked nervous as I approached him, wiping his forehead constantly and taking deep breaths, and I knew right away what he was going to do.
He took my hand, got down on one knee and proposed. Before the words were completely out of his mouth I said yes! I was too ecstatic to question the speed of our relationship; after all, we were only going steady for a few months. If I had, I would have realized that there was a lot I did not know about my future husband. I’d never seen him angry or stressed; I did not know how capable he was of handling any of those emotions. I had never seen a negative side to him to know if I could handle it.
Our engagement was short; we were married only five months later. Our wedding day was amazing, it was all I ever dreamed of and so much more. I walked down the aisle of our church escorted by my beaming father. I was wearing a beautiful ivory strapless A-line gown with a diamond belt and a tulle hem. From an emotional service, with me crying through most of the ceremony, to a festive reception where we partied until we were exhausted, it was an incredible day.
We honeymooned on the north coast at a boutique resort and day spa that I had always wanted to visit. When we got to the hotel, we were greeted by a romantic setting in our hotel room. The bed was covered with rose petals; there were scented candles lit everywhere, there was a bucket with champagne and assorted fruits arranged on the dining table, and romantic music playing in the background to set the tone. I immediately headed to the bathroom, took a bath and slipped on very sheer, black lingerie. I came out looking good and smelling even better, only to find my husband propped on a chair reading a book!
At first, I thought he was just passing the time waiting for me to get ready, but then I changed the music to ‘Under the Bedsheets’ a romantic slow jam, and I started doing some sexually stimulating and enticing dance moves that my best friend Kemona taught me--- “yes girl,” I could remember her saying, “you need to do a little slutty dance and turn him on” -- but he didn’t even budge! I turned the music off and asked him what was wrong. All he said was; he was tired and we have a lifetime to have sex. Then he went to bed.
Imagine! On my wedding night, instead of consummating my marriage and getting rid of my virginity that was weighing me down like a wet cloak, I had to settle for a masturbating session in the bathroom. It was a good thing I had packed my ‘rabbit’ at the last minute.
I did not speak to him for an entire day, and it almost ruined our honeymoon. To his credit, he did put it on me the next night. As I lay in bed fuming, I felt Bruce climb onto the bed behind me. I curled into a ball, hoping he would take the hint, but he snuggled up to me and planted soft, slow kisses on my neck and shoulders, which he knew would turn me on. I sighed and uncurled my body, which encouraged him to turn me onto my back and straddle me. I glared at him for a moment, before he brought his lips to meet mine for a long, intense kiss that left me breathless.
“I’m sorry about last night.” He said genuinely, when the kiss ended. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
If I had known what was coming, I probably would have filed for an annulment the next day. The empty promise provided some false optimism for our future together. At that moment, I was assured that everything was going to be alright.
I could not have been more wrong.
We made love that night with such an intensity that left me feeling drained and satisfied. He did make up for what we had missed on our wedding night---and more. This was the first time that Bruce was seeing me naked, so I felt sheepish as he removed my dress, but the feeling disappeared when I saw the lust in his eyes as they roamed my body. He gently stroked my body, an action that left my body taut and aching for more than his touch. He ducked his head and started kissing my breasts, then licked them teasingly. Waves of pleasure gradually increased through me, inciting a series of small moans from deep inside.
Bruce inserted a finger into my soaking cunt and stroked me, with his thumb expertly massaging my clit. I started bucking wildly as the pleasure heightened and an electric, heightened feeling that I had never felt before washed over me. It lasted for a few seconds, and before I could catch my breath, Bruce had mounted me and was gently inserting himself inside me, my moist snatch aiding the process. I tensed for a moment when I felt him break my barrier----it felt as if I was being torn down under. Sensing my discomfort, Bruce turned his concentration to my breasts, caressing each nipple with his tongue, again giving both equal attention until I was fully aroused again and ready to go.
I spread my legs instinctively, giving him greater access and Bruce thrust his member so far in me that it seemed to reach my womb. He grabbed my hips with both hands, pumping with such intensity that I had to beg him to stop, but he was fast approaching the edge and only increased his tempo. As he came, he kissed me so passionately I thought my lips would fall off.
That night I slept like a baby.
I felt a touch on my shoulder, which brought me back to the present. My eyes refocused and I realized we had arrived at our home that we had bought in our first year of marriage. It is a beautiful two-story residence complete with five bedrooms, three baths and a huge kitchen that, due to Bruce’s huge appetite, is fully utilized. I love our master bathroom, for Bruce had it custom built with expensive marble tiles lining the walls and floor, and a huge Jacuzzi. This is my go-to place after a hard day’s work. The property housed a beautiful lawn with a lush garden at each side of the fence, filled with hydrangeas, roses and lilies.
I glanced at Bruce, who was staring at me curiously.
“Something wrong, hon?” he asked.
“No, I’m just tired,” I replied.
I don’t know what I expected that night. I guess I just wanted him to prove me wrong; I wanted him to prove that our marriage was alive and worth salvaging. As I lie awake listening to my husband snore beside me I wondered, what am I doing wrong? Even though I have a thriving and demanding career as a restaurant owner, I still do his laundry, I always ensure that there is a hot meal waiting for him at nights and I over exert myself to guarantee that our home is kept clean, as our housekeeper only comes in once a week. When he comes home tired from his day job as a marketing executive for an insurance firm, and his night job as associate pastor of our church, I sometimes give him a bath and massage, and when he needs someone to talk to I am always there.
It’s certainly not how I look. Although I’ve become the wife of a pastor, I still pride myself in being up-to-date with fashion and the latest trends. I always ensure I am tastefully attired as I know my appearance is important to my roles as Bruce’s wife and an entrepreneur.
My thick, unruly auburn curls are sometimes worn straightened, as it is more manageable and gives my round baby face a sophisticated look. In the beginning, it was a problem for the women in the church, since, according to most of them, a pastor’s wife should be as natural as possible---no processed hair, weave, earrings or makeup. Ironically, they are doing the opposite.
My outfits are still fitted---not as much as when I was younger---but they are still being interpreted by my church sisters as being too tight. I am convinced they are envious of the fact that I have a beautiful body which I maintain with healthy eating and lots of exercise. My smooth, flawless, golden skin that I inherited from my grandmother is the envy of many women. I know a lot of them would kill for my trim figure, small waist and wide hips.
He keeps telling me I’m perfect; so, what is his problem?
Kemona is constantly encouraging me to do something to get his attention, but when I ask for ideas, she shakes her head and smiles cunningly. Recently though, I’ve been thinking a lot about making something happen.
Anything.
I can’t live like this anymore.
