We were drunk. Very drunk. I had the weekend off. Rare for my job. We usually worked six days. Always on call. Twelve hour shifts,minimum. Overtime. Always overtime. The weekend meant rest and more rest. It meant fun. Trips. Movies. Magic Mountain. Fun.
We laid on the floor, embraced, smiling, laughing. There she was. A woman I fought tooth and nail for in my heart and mind. A woman that made me giddy. Happy. Complete. Sexy, kind, funny, perfect. Freckles on her face, light red hair, soft skin, kisses, love. Her weight wasn’t a problem for me. I loved her. I loved her so much that on the floor, drunk, insane, I asked her to marry me.
In my head it was a joke. My thoughts said, “Wouldn’t it be funny to ask her?” and I answered with a resounding yes. As did she, before breaking out in tears and confessions. I said we didn’t have to say anything. It isn’t official. Its more of a promise. She said it wasn’t that. It was something bad. Something worse. Something very, very wrong.
“What is it?” I asked. The answer I did not expect. If I was the man that I am now, I would of saw it. I wouldn’t have been on that floor with her, singing lovely praises between shots, blind to the words that came next. The words that haunted me for months, years. Something I never got over. Something I kept secret for her and, sadly, for myself.
In April of that year I went down to meet her for the first time. Months of talking over the phone. Years of talking over the internet. It was time. She was overjoyed. The first days were blissful. Then things rolled away. She became distant. She was cold. She said I was different. I couldn’t figure out why. I was nervous, yes, but what I was to learn later was that I was cocky on the phone. I performed a Beta Switch. That, in her mind, led her to sleep with her ex, in the back of his van, while I sat in her bedroom, waiting, freaking out, anxiety bursting through my pores.
The next moment was long. It hit me, but I went cold. Very cold. I held her in my arms and screaming CUNT through my bones. WHORE! SLUT! I had forgiven her for backing out of our plans, forcing me to make a trip 3000 miles in a state of intense depression, only to change her mind again not long after. That was nothing compared to this. This was something that was meant to be unforgivable. Death was passed on crimes such as these for thousand of years. We weren’t even married, but it was the deep, boiling betrayal she knew she committed. She knew what she did. She knew the enormity of the pain. She waited until now to tell me. I thought and thought and thought, yet the answer came as quickly as her confession.
“Its okay,” I said, teeth clenched. Arms around her sobbing, wobbling figure. Her body shaking. My body numb.
What else was there to do? Smack her around? I wished. I wished always. I wished I had sent her packing and returned the fling with my bigger breasted roommate. I wish I had left her at the airport. I wished so many things, but I had it in my head that I put this much effort in, that I still loved her, that I’d get over it.
That was my mistake. Trying to get over it. Trying to rationalize it. Impossible. The best reaction is the natural reaction, otherwise you’re fighting something stronger than civilization. You’re fighting yourself. There’s a reason we feel these things. They help us survive.
I made the wrong choice that night. I made the wrong choice from then until she left. After she left, after months of work, I did something I said I do that night on the floor.
I got over it. By getting over her. By getting over the lies of society. By embracing what is real, my instincts.