I'm Still Asking Myself Why, Delilah
The ballad of an unwilling cuckold
My instinct was to push the chair further back; away from Doc Walker’s close scrutiny, but it was bolted to the floor. So I sat, slumped and uncooperative, watching a crawling fly.
He started right in, with the usual questions. I stared at my clumsy, rubber-soled shoes.
“When did you meet your partner? Had you agreed to be exclusive, before you suspected she was cheating?”
Curling my fingers in tightly, my nails dug into my palms: A different pain to block out the memories which I was forced to relive every week.
“I saw the light on the night that I passed by her window.”
“So you were in your car? What was your destination?”
“I was laid off from work, I was coming home early,” I muttered. The facts burnt like acid on my tongue. “I saw the flicker of love on her blinds.”
“Were you ever tempted to stray?”
“She was my woman,” I shook my head, as if I could dislodge the image of her face, her lush curves and seductive smile from haunting me.
“I could see that girl was no good for me, but I was lost like a slave, that no man could free.”
“Talk me through what happened next. Did you plan to confront her?”
“I didn’t know what to do, was in the grip of such fury that it took over my body. I get jealous and I have a temper. Delilah knew this, but seemed to enjoy jerking me around.”
She’d flirt with the guy at the gas station, the teller at the bank, the cashier at the market. One night she told the barkeep she wasn’t wearing any panties: Then they disappeared out back where he took his cigarette break. My humiliation was constant, I was her cuckold. As she deceived me I watched, and went out of my mind.
“Did you park up and watch her property?”
“At break of day when that man drove away, I was waiting. I crossed the street to her house and I knocked on the door.”
“Did you plan to sit down and discuss the situation calmly?”
Is the Doc serious? I couldn't think straight, kept asking why would she do this to me? Didn’t she know I loved her, would do anything for her? I never understood why she looked outside our relationship. I gave her everything she needed: Attention, money, time. She was my woman. I’d have laid down my life for her; told her that a hundred times.
“What was her attitude, was she contrite?”
“She stood there laughing.”
Something dies inside each time I’m forced to admit this.
Every week, every fucking week Doc walks me over hot coals, steps me through the most traumatic hours of my life. And it’s really not necessary. That nightmare is with me every night, projected on a screen in my mind. It plays in vivid technicolor, surround sound, and 3-D — no need for special glasses. If I could change it, I would. Instead, I ask myself ‘why’ ad infinitum.
I can still feel the warmth of Delilah’s body, smell the perfume on her hair mingled with the musk of sex on her skin. I can’t explain my motivation, hadn’t known I was carrying it, but I felt the knife in my hand and she laughed no more.
“So you had the knife with you?”
“I told you Doc. I got laid off from work. I’m a chef, with my own set of knives. I was bringing them home in my car.”
“A knife is an offensive weapon.”
“It’s also one of the tools of my trade, Doc.”
He looks grave, makes a note on his pad; same routine every week. The session’s over. He signals to the guards, who take me back to my cell. I don’t resist as they push me into the tiny room with a bed.
“Forgive me Delilah, I just couldn’t take any more.”
Delilah was a hit for the Welsh singer Tom Jones in 1968. I’ve used the narrative in the song, and reproduced the lyrics, to shape this fictional piece. Credit must go to Barry Mason, the songwriter. This story also appeared on Medium
What a subtitle! Could be a book title 🤩
Whoa ... what a reveal at the end. Riveting story-telling, Posy!