We go to the show and my <10-day ex tells me, “The singer’s totally checking you out.”
That’s awesome for my self-esteem. I look over to their merch stand and as I make eye contact with the singer, she walks to the bathroom. My ex follows her.
They emerge some minutes later and my ex tells me about her conversation with the cute singer:
I told her I liked their set, that we came from Memphis to see them. She asked who ‘we’ meant, I pointed to you and said, my girlfriend.
Except we’re broken up. And you have a crush.
My ex continues:
Since we’re not going to have sex, I’m going to see *** (her crush).
Slam my heart against the wall a little harder, why don’t you? Just like that my ex has simultaneously cock-blocked someone I could have some random fun with AND informed me that she’ll be driving two hours to see her crush, leaving me no way to get around this small unknown town for the night. Awesome.
It’s a damn shitty, gross feeling to know that as I’m sweating stale beer and starving, my ex is out talking to, kissing? fucking?! her crush. Love has no rules and new love doesn’t suffer fools gladly; it is too young, wild and headstrong to pause for words like consideration and other people’s feelings.
Insomnia hits. My stomach growls because I want greasy, hot, melty food (preferably of the starchy variety) to sop up my show alcohol, but I can’t NOT think about my ex potentially fucking her new someone and that instantly nauseates me. I stare blankly at the TV.
3:30, 4, 4:30AM.
Thank god my little compadre pooker is with me; her familiar muzzle and warm little body comforts me. I hug my little Izzy dog and we try to sleep.
5:30, 6, 6:30AM.
Sleep never comes but my ex comes back to drive us home.
She looks exhausted and I almost offer to drive the first bit so she can crash but I just. don’t. have. it. in. me.
I think a fuck of a lot the whole way home.
We had a remarkable decade
I have no regrets of an ending of us.