I am in the foulest of moods and it is all because of one man. He has brought me to this point of anger, hatred and disgust. There is nothing more foul than a man who betrays a woman. He did that to me. He betrayed me and now I seek a way to avenge myself. As I ponder the possibilities, I start to daydream of how he will react to each scenario.
The ringing of the phone brings me out of my thoughts. I get up and walk over to the phone and answer it. It’s him, the one that has caused me so much distress. His side of the conversation primarily consists of him pleading for my forgiveness of his actions. I listen calmly and silently as his words continue on into my head. Finally, he asks if he can see me. He wants to talk about the situation and to hopefully end our time together in friendship.
I think this option over in my mind as I attempt to compose my plan as well as my response. As my mind works, the response of yes leaves my lips and a wicked little grin appears on my lips. We make plans to meet up the following evening. “Will it be enough time to concoct my plan of attack?” I wonder to myself. I hang up the phone and go to work on my plan.
The next evening rolls around and I am preparing myself to face him. The pain of my situation has left and only the hatred of this man and what he has done to me remains. I make all the necessary preparations and then leave to meet him at the restaurant we agreed upon.
As I walk inside, I see him already sitting at a table. He raises his hand slightly to show that he has seen me. I think to myself how good he looks, but then snap out of it as I remember the tasks ahead. I walk over to the table in my shortest skirt and low cut top, giving him every opportunity to see and remember what I have to offer.
I sit myself down across from him and immediately he starts to speak. “Before anything else is said, I want to thank you for coming and to tell you how truly sorry I am that this happened the way it did,” he says. “I never meant for this to happen, and if I could change it, I would.”
I look at him and show a small smile. He continues on. “I met her three months ago while I was away working,” he continued. “I don’t know what happened, but we got to talking and things just seemed to fall into place somehow. I love her.” The words hit me like a slap to the face and I was stunned. I figured he wanted her for her youth, or perhaps because she had not birthed a child, therefore her body was still “unmarred”. I was not expecting this.
I attempted to show no sign of shock or unsettlement. I’m still not certain if I managed it or not, but I did make the effort. I had to keep my mind on my tasks. So what if he loves her, I loved him and he hurt me in the unspeakable way those of the opposite sex hurt each other. With that, I formulated my responses. “Well, sometimes these things happen, and if she truly makes you happy, you should be with her,” I stated, almost as a stranger would to another about the weather. “I would just like to move on with my life and put that night behind me.”
He looks at me in slight bewilderment and it seems that I have confused him in some way. Perhaps a public meeting was to steer me from some sort of scene. This amuses me since if I had planned to make a scene, it would have been when I found them together in his apartment. At this point, the waiter comes by and asks if we are ready to order.
“I would like a shot of tequila and my friend here will have the same,” I tell the waiter. “Are you ready to order food?” the waiter asks. “I think we need a few more minutes, the tequila will be fine for now,” I reply. The waiter leaves to retrieve our drinks and I turn my gaze back upon him.
“You always were a tequila girl, weren’t you?” he asks with a little bit of grin attached. “But not me. You know that.”
My wicked grin shows itself for the first time of the evening and I say, “Oh, I know, but I feel that this is your penance. You will have one shot of tequila with me to repent for your sins against me.” He raises an eyebrow as the waiter returns with the tequila. He sets them on the table and again asks if we are ready to order our dinner. We make our respective orders and then take our glasses in hand as the waiter walks away.
“A toast,” I start, “to the future and what it will bring.” I lift my glass and he does the same, bringing it against mine, causing the little “tink” so well known to those that have shared a toast. We take our shots and he shivers slightly as it goes down.
“That tastes like shit!” he says. “I never did know why you liked it so much.”
I shrug the comment off and say, “because it gets me good and fucked up and I like the taste of it.” “Besides, the fact that you despise it so is somewhat of a turn on for me now.” Again, his eyebrow raises as he tries to figure out what I’m getting at.