I’m sitting at Chili’s, in the lounge surrounded by a throng of fat people. The din is unreal. We’re in the spotlight. But I know that she’s really the one in the spotlight. She’s got something she’s gotta tell me, and I fiddle lamely with my half-eaten Molten Chocolate Cake.
It’d been gone in thirty seconds flat (she’s witnessed it before), but there’s something not right about it. She can’t look me in the eye. She hasn’t been all day. I wonder if she’s finally going to tell me which of my closest brothas her best friend is in love with and secretly seeing.
I wish that was all it was. I know it’s far worse, though.
* * * * * * *
We’ve been going out non-stop for over a year now, and I took her home after two days. Not to brag, but I broke her in. Stole her cherry, and ate it, too. And she likes it. She’s liked it from the very beginning. She fell in love with me shortly after that (coincidence? I’ll let you decide), and we became exclusive pretty quick. She’s a hot, petite lil’ blonde mama, perfectly proportioned (read: judicious jugs, and a perfect, symmetrical ass) with a no-frills attitude and zero drama. More than any guy could ask for.
Although it sounds pussy, I’ve spent every single night (save for, like, three) sharing the same bed with her. That takes a lot of trust from me, and it was a limb I was willing to risk for this woman.
Six months into it, I finally admitted that I loved her. She was so happy. We were so happy.
A few months ago, she dumped my ass for no reason at all. She was confused about where her life was going, and had taken the advice of every single behind-the-back shit-talking bitch she knew. I didn’t take it so bad, because I knew it was coming a week in advance. Still, the thought of her agreeing to see other people killed me inside (as it should any self-respecting man).
Sho’ ’nuff, a week later she shows up at my door dressed to kill (how come they never look that good when they’re attached, anyway?). It took all my self-control not to throw her down on her bed and bone the living shit outta her. She breaks down crying, and tells me about this dude she was with.
I already knew the story before she told it. She wasn’t sure what to do with herself, and at the merciless and idiotic suggestions of her dumbassed girlfriends, she almost spent the night with the guy “that was right for her".
No, she’s not a ho. She didn’t sex him up, but everything else left out under the sun happened.
She told me she tried to make it work with him, but she knew that deep inside the only love she had was for Dick.
And like a softie, I took her back.
I know, I know. You shoulda seen her outfit, though.
So it’s been going good for the last four months or so since that happened. Monday night she was out with her girlfriends till past 2am, which is unlike her because she had an important final that next morning. And she wouldn’t answer the phone.
I knew she was drinking. Heavily.
I jumped in the sack and tried not to think about it. When she goes on a drinking binge, she goes all out. There’s no stopping her ass. She flirts with every guy and girl within a three mile radius, and gets PISSED when they take her keys away. And don’t try and take her phone, either, because she’ll walk all six miles home when it’s freezing outside in heels and a miniskirt through the worst parts of town.
She’s a monster when she’s drunk. Somebody I don’t even know. It’s her rendition of Edward Hyde: completely uncontrollable and at the mercy of her own crazy impulses. I’ve been woken up by the desperate pleas of her friends at 4am and tried finding her in my car. I’ve been through shit for her.
Five am. I hear knocking on the front door. She doesn’t have a key (probably for this very reason), and I locked it on purpose. She calls my man LB (who lives next to me) five times and wakes his ass up to open up my door. She strolls in, strips, and stumbles into bed. Snoring in less than a minute flat.
She never snores.
She wakes up yesterday morning and takes her final, and does miserably. She doesn’t talk to me all day because she’s gotta study.
* * * * * * * * * * *
I’m studying her face again. We’re at Chili’s, and I’m poring over every detail I can from her expressions. I’m not forgetting this one.
Her face tells the whole story.
I set my fork down and push my desert out. I want to know. She already ruined dinner and my favorite dessert, she might as well ruin my whole evening.
“You’ve gotta promise that you’ll let me finish, with no interruptions or questions or remarks. You can’t judge me until I finish. Promise?”
“Tell me.”
“Promise?”
“OK. I promise. Tell me.”
“I’ll start by saying that I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and I know if it happened to me, I would be extremely pissed, but I wouldn’t dump you.”
Like a big bet on the Flop, you try and put your opponent on a hand. I’m thinking a she’s got a pair of Jacks. Not the big hand, but enough to get somebody’s attention.
Like a blowjob.
She had gotten a hold of a bottle of peach schnapps, her favorite hooch at a Fuck the Finals party. I started shaking my head, she gave me a stern look, and continued.
“Before I knew it, I had finished the bottle.”
“You mean you didn’t know that you drank the whole thing until it was too late? Or because you have a problem and you couldn’t stop?”
She looks defeated, then defensive, then irate.
“Sorry, continue.”
The party raged into the night, and she was having such a good time (without me, weird, huh?) with all her girls.
She must have been, because they took her keys again.
Some fucker she knew offered to take her to his house and let her sleep on his bed.
“And like a complete fucking idiot, I said ‘OK!’ “
Fourth card comes out, and her third Jack comes out. Meanwhile, my hand goes from bad to worse.
She looks down for ten minutes or more, while I study her face. I can’t show any emotion right now. I push it back, and focus on her.
The waitress is annoyed at our apathy towards her. Other people in the restaurant are wondering why we’re together if we’re not even talking or looking at each other.
I’m wondering the same thing.
“Tell me.”
She begins to choke up, then pretends to fish something out of her purse while she calms herself back down.
“Tell me.” I’m drumming my fingers.
She’s avoiding all eye contact now.
She makes a quick gesture towards her lips. The same gesture she used when she wanted a kiss in public.
“Tell me.”
“I don’t want to cry in here. I’ll tell you in the car.”
I left a 20% tip for the waitress for her troubles. I also secretly wrote “She cheated on me” on my napkin as we got up to leave.
As we walked past the front windows, I could see the waitress and two girl coworkers looking at that napkin, and us.
I looked at them, and took my arm off her.
She plops lazily into my passenger seat, and I tell her goodnight.
She breaks down. “No! Don’t make me leave! I want to talk! You’ve got to be thinking something! What are you thinking?” She’s sobbing now.
I really don’t know how to feel. I’m not surprised, because I knew it was coming. Therefore, I’m not mad, either. Just matter-of-factual. Secretly weighing in all the options for the decision I’m going to make in a few minutes. But hell if she’s gonna know that.
The River comes a deuce of hearts. A nothing card.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I didn’t mean to! I didn’t know what I was doing!” More sobby pleas.
I stay silent, driving up to an overlook of the highway. I stay there for a long time, hearing her repeated apologies and excuses. But I’m not listening. I’m carefully weighing out my options.
I look down at my hand, and I’m holding a 3-4 in hearts. I look at the flop, and I see a 5-6 on the board. Hearts as well.
I hadn’t been paying attention, and the solution was there the entire time. The nothing card suddenly comes to my favor, and I’ve got the nuts.
I can’t let her know what I’ve got, because I want her to put as much out there as possible before I surprise her with my hand. My decision.
I turn around, and we’re back to the parking lot next to her car.
“Why won’t you tell me what you’re thinking? You’ve got to be thinking something?”
I shrug my shoulders. “You’ve gotta go home now. You’ve got to go study for that final.”
Her face distorts into sorrow, and then a bawl. “No!”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Go study.”
She gives me one last look, and slams my door closed as she gets in her car.
I’m driving out of the parking lot now, and she’s right behind me. I have an idea. I call her.
“Come to my house. I think everything’s gonna be OK.” …I check…
She rolls the thought around in her head, searching for any sign of sympathy. “OK, I’m coming over.”
…she bets…
She arrives with a half-smile. I’m in my room tidying things up. All her belongings are neatly stacked on the bed.
… and I raise. I’m all in.
I point to the stack, and she looks at me.
Her wretched face contorts into the saddest face I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
She curls up and cries for what seems like an hour.
She knows I’ve got the nuts now. But it’s too late.
“I just want to be friends with you, sweetie. I can’t be in this relationship with you any longer if I can’t trust you. You know that.”
“I know. I just want you to be happy. You deserve that from me.”
“Have I ever done anything to hurt you?”
“No. You… you deserve so much more than–” and then breaks completely down.
She picks up all her belongings: our favorite blanket, my sweats that she always wears to bed, her toothbrush.
I give her a kiss on the cheek as we stand in front of the door.
“I told you. Everything’s gonna be OK.”
By Robert Shagwell | Dec 15, 2004 | Permalink |
