Crying in Front of a Man

To my first love, I wept profusely. These tears confused the boy, and he would act. Generally, he took me out to eat. I grew fat, sobbing my way into some of the best restaurants in Richmond. My first husband ignored the initial shattering of tears. But if I went on grovelling, wailing long enough he’d collect me from the floor give me a bit more grocery money, wipe my eyes tell me it would be okay by and by. My second husband despised my tears. He’d seen women crawl and shake enough, said the vipers can enter a trance at will and let their best sobs heave ho to twist a man and bend him into shape. I trouble not this third man with my tears. Have in fact forgotten how to cry and in forgetting have grown steel eyes, a molten core like mad Vesuvius, am held in check by nothing but the weather and the whims of fate.