I go to bed with the same man every night.
The same man.
I climb into bed.
I turn him on and eventually I turn my back on him.
I fell in love with him last year.
I cannot get enough of him.
He is not my man.
But I go to bed with him every night.
No, he is not my man.
He belongs to another woman.
He would be nothing without her.
No one would know his name were it not for her.
She is responsible for his style and all those eccentric mannerisms that I find so endearing.
Yes, I go to bed with him every night.
Although he belongs to another woman.
Who grew to despise him.
But I like him . .. . a lot.
And every night . . .
Yeah, you know . . .
What’s his name?
Yep, that’s right, Agatha Christie’s man from Belgium.
That figment of her imagination.
brought us together.
All thirteen seasons!
Until boredom do us part.