They assumed I was preoccupied, but his flirtation techniques were boring, and his life not interesting by half to spend this amount of time regurgitating his brilliance. Not even four vodka tonics made him entertainment. Instead, I listened to their conversation, the hushed tones all the more intriguing and somehow highlighted in the loud bar.

They were talking about her. And her crazy antics. I was amazed. What type of girl throws her drink at the bartender? Apparently, his type.

Well, his new type.

One would think I would find comfort in her lack of class and instability. In our juxtapostion. I was not raised that belittling others or throwing temper tantrums, regardless of age, were appropriate. Those people do not get ahead in life and their act grows old. Quickly. One would hope that I could rationally follow this thought process and find comfort in my own self-worth. Instead, I am numb that he chose that over me. That that won.

And who has he turned into that that is ok?

He never tolerated that bullshit from me. Even when fighting, he would be the one to ask me to lower my voice or remind me that name-calling was not going to solve our problem. I was above that and he expected more from me. And I was above that, the expectation was not without merit.

I like to think that if he handled the situation better, we could have been friends. If he had played the whole distance-sucks card instead of ripping my heart out and walking away in vulnerable abandonment. I’m not alone in this; he occasionally mentions harbored hopes of meeting me on the street someday when I have forgiven him and we have matured a little.

I used to induldge the fantasy.

But now I am so hurt that he never answers my calls, that he is too occupied with her to give me even a smackeral of respect or to honor even one of my requests. That he is so consumed with her that I am disposable, the one person who knows him and was his best friend for six years. That he chose that.

But I still miss who he was; I sometimes wonder if the guy I loved is still in there somewhere.

But distractions are best and so throughout this dramatic inner-monolgue, I ordered another cocktail and smiled confidently … and didn’t cry until I reached home. And counted it as a small victory.

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