That Wretched Day

Rachel* and I decided to be each other’s Valentines this year, which required us to do something other than sit around the house in a pity party. Even though it was a Monday night and she had to be at work the next day, we decided to have a couple of drinks at Bojangle’s. While making arrangements, she mentioned that Big Red had asked what was up for the evening. (Last week, I sent out an e-mail to my single friends asking for Valentine’s Day ideas . No one responded, so I’d given up.) I begrudgingly called Big Red to invite him along, mentally axing my hopes for any ego-boosting attention at the bar. Then, I thought I might as well call Patch*, too. (If you’ve been following along for some time, Patch was the friend who hung out with us the night I walked out on the SoHB.)

Rachel was sitting at the bar when I arrived. She’d hoped for the cute, juggling bartender, but we had a personable female bartender instead. She brought each of us a red carnation saying that every woman should have a flower for Valentine’s Day. I was looking through Rachel’s cruise pictures when Big Red came in. Patch arrived much later. He asked if I had called The Flirt. Of course, I hadn’t, not after our last night at Bojangle’s, but I didn’t go into detail. I told Patch to call him if he wanted to, and he did. The Flirt must have been bored and lonely this night for he was there in a flash.

The five of us sat around the bar. We made several toasts to “F*** Valentine’s!” The mood was overall light and jovial peppered slightly with bitterness. I had my lingering issues over the SoHB. Rachel and I were both a little jaded over the treatment we’ve received from men we loved. Patch broke up with his live-in girlfriend only a couple of months ago. Big Red is always sarcastic and usually without a relationship or love interest. I suppose Rachel was his last big disappointment, but that was over a year ago. The Flirt … Well, maybe The Flirt was lonely for his Kentucky Booty-Call.

Conversation eventually turned to the upcoming Chili Cook-Off. We asked each other who was going, and it turned out all of us were. I wondered idly if Patch would go with the SoHB and his girlfriend. I felt that he knew the SoHB’s plans, nonetheless. It took several minutes to find the nerve to ask, but I finally did. And he confirmed that the SoHB is indeed going to the cook-off.

The alcohol had already begun dampening my mood. Hearing my fears confirmed took it down another notch. Then, Patch said something that sent me sliding. I cannot remember the context of his story. I can only remember him saying something about being at The Flirt’s house one night hanging out with The Flirt, the SoHB, and Michelle. Michelle? Who’s Michelle? I don’t know any Michelle?

But, of course, I didn’t ask. I knew very well who Michelle was.

She has a name now. She had to have a name, but I didn’t want to know it. I don’t want her to be real, although logically knowing she is real enough. I guess it’s rather like naming an animal. On farms, they don’t name the animals that will be slaughtered. They can’t risk an emotional investment, and must avoid humanizing them. Likewise, I don’t want her to have a name. I don’t want to validate her existence.

I also didn’t like hearing her mentioned so casually. I didn’t like the image of her hanging out with my friends, accepted now as a natural part of the SoHB’s world. It used to be natural as air to say “the SoHB and Kwirk.” We were like a package deal, even as friends. Whenever one of us wasn’t present, everyone asked the other’s whereabouts. Now, it’s apparently him and Michelle. They’ve adopted her. They deign to enjoy her company. No, it doesn’t make me angry, although it makes me jealous. I’m aware that I can’t expect them to ostracize the girl for my sake, but it makes me feel … replaced.

The militant non-smoker, Patch, asked if I would trade seats with him because of the offensively smoking stranger he was next to. Rachel and I laughed at his gall because we didn‘t like smoke either. I suggested he could get The Flirt, our only smoker, to trade seats with him, which he did. This put The Flirt right next to me. (The irony is not lost on me. I didn’t want to sit next to the smoker, so I suggest he trade seats with a smoker. Brilliant.) I didn’t know what to do, what to say. All I could think of was the last night I’d seen him – the night he lied to me about Miss Kentucky Booty-Call – the night I later expressed my anger in a way that was not only unflattering, but malicious – the night I shamed myself so badly, I won’t even speak of it here. Although he acted normally towards me, there would be no small talk until I could set things right.

I brought up the last evening at Bojangle’s, asking why he lied to me. He didn’t understand, so I explained how he referred to his relationship with Miss Kentucky differently between Rachel and me. He pointed out that he had not lied to either of us. She is more into the relationship than he is.

"Well, is she your girlfriend or not?” I asked.

“We talk on the phone. We see each other when we can, so yes, I guess you could call her my girlfriend.”

“I felt that you downplayed your relationship with her because you wanted to keep me available,” I said.

“See, now, you know what you’re doing? You’re being a typical woman – overanalyzing everything.”

“What? No, there’s no analysis to it. That was the impression I got that night! When you called her your girlfriend to Rachel, but avoided saying anything like that to me, if felt as if you were concealing if from me.”

“I didn’t think of it that way. I told her the truth. I told you the truth.”

“But you see how I could get the wrong idea, don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah. Okay. I just wish everyone would leave me alone about it. I like her. She likes me. There’s not much more to it. Everyone wants to know what we are, and it’s nobody’s business.”

“But it’s personal to me, Flirt! You think I care whether or not she’s your girlfriend? I don’t care, but I ask because I need to know my boundaries with you. It‘s all about intentions. Do you intend to try having a relationship with her?”

Pause. “Yes,” he says decisively.

“Then, that’s what it’s all about, and that’s all I need to know.”

Then it was confession time. I begrudgingly admitted to my act of aggression against him. He expressed shock. He had blamed someone else entirely – nameless, faceless strangers, actually. He had no idea it was me. I offered my most abject apology, and hoped he would allow me to make it up to him.

“I hope you were drunk when you did that,” he said.

“Oh, yes. I would never have done that sober. I don’t remember making a conscious decision to do it even now, just a vague memory as though I’m watching myself. I went to tell you how angry I was, but you wouldn’t answer. Not being able to shout at you made me feel so helpless, I guess, that the next thing I know… And I had to tell you it was me. I don‘t want to be like the SoHB. I want to be accountable for what I‘ve done.”

He graciously accepted my apology saying I didn’t need to make reparations, but I know that I do. You don’t knowingly hurt someone without expecting to be held accountable. No real man or woman would expect otherwise.

Rachel then grabbed my arm and insisted that I talk to her. She was lonely sitting in the middle of our fivesome, as those of us on the ends had paired off in conversation. Someone decided we should move to a table, and so we did.

The night moved swiftly then. A band had started playing late. The boys were enthralled with a basketball game on the big screen. I zoned out several times, lost in my thoughts about the SoHB and a girl now named. Rachel got a little attention from a couple of men, and I caught the eye of one, but he never came round to speak. Patch left. Then The Flirt received a call from Miss Kentucky, and he soon left. Big Red, Rachel and I decided to all go to Chili Cook-Off together, which makes me feel a little better than if I only had Rachel, great as she is. We parted ways, and I came home and cried. Reality can be so cruel.

* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.