"She" Is Not Me

She made this bed.

And as I watched her lie writhing in it, restless, cold, stiff…my initial amusement later turned to sympathy.

I have a relentless habit of putting my feet in other folks’ shoes.

So when I saw her on Black Friday I wondered not if, but how much she regretted making the trip.

They walk into an upscale nightclub at the tail end of a private birthday party, just before the DJ would take over. Turns out the person throwing the party was his old football buddy. He walks into a sea of familiar faces, all foreign to her.

All except one.

She walks behind him, her steps subtly strained and reluctant. He is in his element, home, among friends, good people from his past. He’s greeted with genuine welcomes, daps, hugs and cheek kisses, and she watches from a step behind.

And as she rounds the bar, following him to a spot she hopes is beyond the crowd, she sees a face that is all too familiar. The face that haunts her memories of betrayal. The poster child of her insecurity and distrust of so-called plutonic friends.

It was her. The chick who had tried to take her place.

I saw her give the home wrecker the ice grill, a venomous mix of ‘I can’t believe this bitch is here,’ ‘did he know she was gonna be here,’ and ‘I wanna go the hell home.’ I saw her whip out her cellie and compose a flurry of furious text messages.

But she was stuck. Out of town, out of her element, out of place. I watched it all go down. The way the home wrecker used good discretion in turning her back when they entered, then reluctantly greeted him when he awkwardly approached. She sincerely explained that she was there for the private party of the football buddy, who ironically had been her Junior prom date. He settled in at the bar just past her. Just past her, but not far enough for the two women to avoid a direct line of vision.

Home wrecker played it as cool as she could. Downing Moet and ducking in the arms of her plutonic male friends, trying to persuade them it was time to go. But she was in no way being discreet. She was a bit extra flirty, her laugh a bit extra loud…just, extra! And she would not stop smoothing down her hair and checking her makeup. And none of it went unnoticed. Not by her or him.

Backstory:

She loved him. They’d been through a lot, a move among it all. He left her behind for work, and she remained by his side as best she could. It came easily, not because of her devotion but because they had been friends first. Little did she know, he had slowly come to see her as little more than such.

He was a good man, a great boyfriend, never a wanderer… so it came as a crushing blow when she felt his attention slipping away, focused elsewhere, she realized. The confrontation was severe, as was the blow induced by his honesty. Yes, he had been serious all those months that he had been expressing his uncertainty about their future. Yes, there was someone new…the Homewrecker.

She managed to convince him to give it another try. Despite her insecurities, despite the distance, despite their never ending battle about his bubbling social life, and abundance of plutonic female friends. Down South, where she was from, it wasn’t like that. Guys get phone calls and emails and text messages from girls who are giving it up. Plain and simple. She couldn’t get that out of her head…especially not after his one indiscretion.

She knew that there was a reason why he had drifted. They were of different breeds. He, a music-obsessed social butterfly…she, a more subdued homebody. Basically it was their past, a history of having the other’s back, that bonded them for another full unproductive year.

They ended it a while ago. Stopped speaking at her behest. But there were Thanksgiving plans, he reminded her, in an effort to get her to end the silent treatment. She finally spoke up two days before the holiday, and asked if she could still come to his hometown for the weekend as planned. She needed closure. In layman’s terms…another try. He said he’d think about it.

He called in reinforcements, but the decision was ultimately his. He says he feels like he owes her at least that after everything they've been through. Agrees when she says it shouldnt linger any longer. Would prefer to end it on a positive note rather than with the mess the last time they spoke, when SHE finally stuck a fork in it. They drove home on Wednesday after work.

And her plan might have worked had it not been for them pesky plutonic friends and that bitch. All night, he was mobbed by acquaintances, a good number of them women. Dancing and hugging and chatting them up. Sure, he and her were not together, but no doubt the point of this trip was to try to salvage what she could of this relationship. But this was overload. It was Thanksgiving dinner all over again… a constant barrage of overindulgence, and the subsequent nausea that followed. She was overwhelmed by it all and had nowhere to run. If he was still her man, she could demand they leave. Or at least if she was home she could drive herself or get a homegirl to come scoop her.

Instead she had insisted on taking this ill-fated trip, a last ditch effort to hold a man who was too polite, too indecisive, too sympathetic, too guilty, too scared to firmly end it. She exploited his wish-washy nature, and got trapped between the mistress and a hard place.

But it was the exact blunt trauma she needed to move the hell on.

Glad she aint me. I woulda never took that trip.