When a woman is no longer desired by her husband, his head now turned in a different direction, the compass of his attraction long ceased finding its north towards her, she will react in one of two ways. Some women, like me, retreat within themselves, staring loathingly at the beast reflected at them in their bathroom mirror, the monster that drove their husband into the outstretched waiting arms, and bed, of another woman. A younger woman. A better woman. A worthier woman. Transfixed on imperfections they hide away and retreat deep within themselves, camouflaged protection, hueless and quiet, concealed into invisibility. They lurk small and insignificant through the world hardly daring to speak, lest they hear their own voice. 

 

Others, rebelliously break free from the impenetrable shell that kept them encased and squashed for so long; their renaissance a work of brilliance revealing them glimmering and reborn headfirst facing the sun, loud and unapologetic. Shamelessly, they take up the space they had once etched out for others and laugh from deep within themselves, their life a banquet of pleasures laid out just for them. A delectable smorgasbord for one. They captivate and inspire, repelling and attracting according to their own will.

 

She was certainly the latter.