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" The news from Darfur sort of put my situation with Blythe in perspective. It may have been bad at work, but at least I wasn&amp;#039;t blindfolded and in some sort of holding pen in the ground. That&amp;#039;s the image that kept coming to me: Chai trapped in a dark hole the length of her body, pleading for mercy. I couldn&amp;#039;t even conceive how horrible it must be for her, and I tried not to. That seemed like the wrong way to think about it.  I told a few of the waitstaff what had happened, in confidence, but before long Blythe found out. She tried to comfort me, but I told her not to bother. &amp;quot;I just want you to know that if there&amp;#039;s anything you need, I&amp;#039;ll be there,&amp;quot; she said.  What a load of bull crap. Where was she on her birthday when I wanted to surprise her with a gift? Oh, I remember. She was screwing her producer.  It occurred to me that Blythe had never sacrificed one thing for me. Everything she apparently did for me was motivated by her own self-interest: She broke off her engagement, not because she loved me more but because she needed an excuse to do it. She started a restaurant, not because she wanted to build something together but because she was looking for an excuse to get out of her law practice. She used me, and all along I thought I was the one using her.  Meanwhile, we had a very unwelcome visitor today. George. If I&amp;#039;d seen him walk in the door, I probably wouldn&amp;#039;t have permitted him inside, but he was already seated by the time I noticed he was there.  He wore sunglasses and a fishing hat, almost as if he was trying to hide his identity. My suspicion is that he worried he might bump into Brit in the restaurant. And we all know what she said she would do if she saw him again.  I avoided his table and his stare the entire time he was seated, but as I went in back to get some more sugar packets, he cornered me in the stockroom. Scared the living crap out of me, actually. I have no idea how he got in there so quickly.  &amp;quot;You need to talk to Brittany,&amp;quot; he said. &amp;quot;Not for me, but for her own safety and the safety of her child.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;We have nothing to say to each other.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Three weeks ago, I took her to the emergency room after she overdosed on meth. Did she mention that to you?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Why would I believe anything you say?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;I thought you&amp;#039;d say that, so I brought proof.&amp;quot; George opened up a folder and pulled out a document from Cedars Sinai hospital. I looked at it quickly. Brittany&amp;#039;s name was there, and something about &amp;quot;drug intoxication.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;So what? She was experimenting and made a mistake. Lots of kids do that kind of thing.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;She&amp;#039;s not a kid. She&amp;#039;s a mother and a wife. And this isn&amp;#039;t the first time, and it won&amp;#039;t be the last.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;What do you want from me, George?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Talk to her. Get her to admit her addiction. Then get her some damn help. For the love of God, don&amp;#039;t leave her alone with her, OUR, dear son.&amp;quot; "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.redbookmag.com/love-sex/mens-perspective/a3566/diary-he-060208/>