I’m still in love with my ex. We got married a few weeks ago so I could stay in the country and tonight we’re finally going out for the first time as friends, to celebrate the marriage. The other day she saw me getting sentimental about marriage and set me straight with, “You know this is just a visa marriage, right?” I kept staring at the screen then, nodding, “yeah.”
But I’m excited; we haven’t gone out together in this new city yet and I’ve been looking forward to getting ready with her. It’s a good way to break friendship ground.
Then she asks if it’d be cool if we meet up at the party instead because this guy that she’s been non-stop texting just asked her to dinner. Goddammit she’s into him. It’s been like two days since they’ve started talking but I can tell she likes him, probably more than she even knows or is willing to admit.
“If that’s what you want to do…”
“Are you sure?”
Of course I’m not sure but I’m not supposed to have to tell her that. She’s supposed to know that we had plans to go to this thing together.
Before she’s even out the door, the tears fall fast, heavy and loud.
I try to will her to come back but with every stupid second that hollows me out I have to face that she’s gone.
I scan the room for her, as her friends have been asking where she is.
She’s never been one to be on time exactly but if she says she’s going to be there, she will. Finally she comes up to me, bright smile and looking as fucking beautiful as ever. Damn her.
…and him. Great. Of course he’s here. I hate him on sight.
I get interviewed by the promoters of the club, my trusty friend helping to translate every so often. I’m proud of myself for answering most of the questions in my non-native tongue first time out. I scan the room in-between chatting it up with random folks here and there. I can’t help but wonder where she is, I want to tell her about my interview.
I see her.
On. His. Lap.
I’m tired of attempting to answer where the hell she disappeared to. I have no idea but saying that is an embarrassing admittance that— that I don’t know where she is, like I used to. She isn’t holding herself accountable to me. I hate this realization.
I’m spent. I’ve drunk but I’m not drunk. I’m hurt. I cry. I had such expectations of this night; one of celebrating a new chapter for us, married best friends who love the hell out of each other. This was supposed to be the most fun night yet. We used to have such a blast going out, getting drunk, talking and laughing…god we used to laugh hard together.
Memories start to flood and the tears flood even harder to keep up with the flashback onslaught: falling in love, moving in together, knowing this is the person I want to spend the rest of my life with, trave— and I have to sit because feeling the heart break can’t be done standing solo. I sit on a curb in the early fucking morning. I sob.
Of course I don’t hear his footsteps. I don’t hear or notice anything until I feel the back of my head jammed forward onto some guy’s dick. He forces my mouth open and rams it in. If I had a gag reflex it’d be in full revolt but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to vomit. Except I can’t because the shock, my empty emotional self, this whole fucking night has left me void.
I don’t care anymore.
I didn’t think it could get worse.
It got worse.
Eventually I tell her about the assault.
She’s shocked and feels absolutely terrible. She cries for me and keeps apologizing as she feels indirectly responsible. She asks if I need to talk to anyone, that I should talk to someone; of course she’s available but she understands if I just want to get as far away from her as possible after the hurt she’s caused.
“I’m more hurt by you and your actions than having to suck some guy off.”
Living with the ex?
Sure, that can be a rough ride but getting over her is plenty hard enough.