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I don’t think she loved me. Hell, I don’t think she knew me. She liked the idea of me in her head. She liked the person she thought I was. That wasn’t anybody’s fault but mine. I allowed my personality to embody traits I knew she would like. I wouldn’t call it a mask; I would call it a secret personality. She had no clue what I did actually. She thought I designed cars. I didn’t. I worked on cars, I remember saying to her the first time we met. She was impressed. I never corrected her to say, I fixed broken cars you know like a mechanic. I doubt she would want to marry a mechanic. I can’t imagine anyone would. But she didn’t know she was marrying one. In a month exactly. I was nervous about spending my life with her. She didn’t seem anything but excited. Then again, she didn’t know she was marrying a mechanic. Or what I actually felt. I just told her what she wanted to hear. I acted how she would love a man to behave.
I don’t think she loved me. She loved the idea of me and the person she wanted me to be. I think that’s the most I can expect from our marriage. Some people would call it immoral or a sham. I call it smart thinking. There is no other way a smart, talented and pretty woman would love me. I’m sure she wouldn’t find out.