I need to run to Your throne, that is where I belong. Jesus. Protect and rescue.
Tonight, I have a good friend who is going to be a guest bartender in a nice lounge next to my apartment building. I am getting ready to head out. I get a bit distracted, and started to clean my closet, order my clothes, put away my bags and purses, etc. Suddenly, I have a flashback.
I remember the days when I would be getting ready to go out to a birthday party, or a shopping trip, or just a friends’ get-together, and as I was choosing out clothes, I would be talking on the phone with my ex boyfriend. He would usually be on his computer doing something else (WOW, anyone?). But regardless, he’d still be listening and offering some opinion and an “uh huh” once in awhile.
I remember the times when he’d visit Philly and he wouldn’t want to go out, he’d refuse to do any of the social activities. So on the weekends that he was here, I would cancel all my social events. And when I was in NJ, though only 5 minutes from NYC, we would rarely go into the city. We usually just stayed in his house, or went grocery shopping, ran errands, went to neighboring restaurants (lots of Korean and Italian food).
I suddenly remember those emails. Those emails between him and the girl. About how they went to the shore and partied it up. How they went crazy and went karaoking. How he spent a lot of money with her, on her. To the point that he forgot his credit card with her.
Pang. Pain stung. Stung hard. And sourness filled my mouth. Went down my spine.
I suddenly remember.
I spent all that money to visit him, pay for all of our outings and dinners. Sometimes I would try to cover his gas or his groceries whenever I could. But all this time, he spent the money that he didn’t have on her. He refused to take me out. But he was willing to take her out. He hated that I would have one or two alcoholic beverages. Yet he told her not to get drunk unless he was there to take care of her.
I cannot cry. My friends are about to get here to pick me up. I cannot cry. I’ll mess up my mascara.
But it hurts. And I feel my strength weakening. I feel myself breaking.
I’m trying to type this out as fast I can so I can get this over with.
But the pain lingers.