I know no one’s perfect, but PERFECT. That’s how she looked that night. From her hair, to her makeup, to her dress that shimmered against her tan skin. It’s like prom – but better, she thought to herself as she adjusted her right earring in the mirror. There. Now that’s perfect too.
She had no expectations other than to have the night of her life with her girls. But who was she kidding, she hoped a certain somebody would be there. That is if he wasn’t off celebrating in Australia or Rio de Janeiro some place extravagant for the night. It would’ve been no surprise to her if he had decided to book a flight Mars just to ring in the New Year then return for work the next day.
As soon as they walked in it was like a slow-motion scene from Heathers. Or Mean Girls. Or Clueless. And Chelley’s I Took The Night was playing in the background of their minds amidst the loud hip-hop playing in reality. From the jump, it was kisses and hugs and Hennessy and Coke or Jamie and Ginger or Vodka Tonics for those who thought they weren’t fucking up their body otherwise. It was all pretty amazing, until she saw him. Upstairs. With her. She squinted in hopes that she could make out who “her” was better. But it was someone she had never seen before. Not the ex, nor the other girl.
Inside, the woman that didn’t love herself screamed, “He took a random out for New Years Eve?!” Outside, the “perfect” woman still greeted him with a huge smile and flirtatious hugs, as if the sight of him all over another woman didn’t just make her crack a few minutes ago. She didn’t see him the rest of the night other than for a brief moment in the stairwell where she noticed that he could barely stand straight. And with the exception of a two minute meltdown at the after party, she never wavered. But when she awoke the next morning, anxiety high and serotonin low, she felt humiliated .
The fact that the next part of this story takes place in his kitchen should be a precursor for the rest of it, but I’m going to continue anyway. He was cooking dinner while she pretended to be busy on her phone. Really, she kept re-reading old emails while wondering if she should bring up New Years Eve. She wanted to tell her how hurt she felt, but fuck that. They weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend, he didn’t owe her any feelings. But they were friends, and he did owe her the courtesy of not acting like a douchebag in front of her. It was bad enough that he did dirt on the side, but he basically dug that shit up and threw it at her feet. I’m going to tell him she thought. He handed her a quesadilla he just made, and she took a huge bite as they recapped their New Years night.
“So did you have fun?” she asked. “It was cool. I basically got drugged,” he replied. “Well, you sure looked like you had a good time,” was all she could manage in between sips of red wine. He paused then seemed to know what she was referring to. “I’m not even into PDA,” he said. Then added, “I woke up alone if that’s what you were wondering”. She shrugged her shoulders and gave him her best indifferent face. She wanted to tell him that he did behind closed doors didn’t bother her as much as what he did right in front of her, but that was the end of that conversation and she never brought it up again. Pathetic.
She finished her meal. Even had another glass of wine. Yet, she felt empty inside. Not only do closed mouths not get fed, they also hand their dignity away on a platter.