His fucking fancy black car is still there, mocking me.
My heart lurches when I pass him on the street, though I’m invisible to him in my new and unfamiliar car. Lucky him.
I dread seeing him when I run to get groceries and have scathing, vitriolic conversations with him under my breath as I stride angrily through the heat from my car to the produce section.
“You should never have followed me to my complex.”
“You lied to me about who you were.”
“You are a cruel, selfish bastard for invading my home.”
I think twice about getting my mail. Do I look good enough if I run into him?
I think twice about walking to the office. Will he see me?
I think twice about visiting the gym behind his building. Does he use it?
When I park at the bottom of the hill near his building late at night, laced with wine, and with a virile, good-smelling man I wish he could see me saunter up the hill.
When I go to the pool with my little string bikini I worry he might be there and even worse, be with someone who looks better than me. Because that’s somehow important to the small woman in me. I’m reduced to thinking looks matter.
The bottom line is, I was wrong.
I got his apartment number wrong — it’s not actually listed on our website — and it feels like he’ll never leave. I have no idea when it’s going to happen. There is no relief in sight.
I am trapped in Purgatory and forced to face my mistakes every morning, noon and night. I ignored all the signs and focused on my love for him. His thoughtful sweetness, his throbbing sex, his delicious distance. I have no one to blame but myself and when I once had power in the situation I no longer do. I can’t make him go.
I struggle with the word regret. It feels like I’m admitting I got nothing from my choice when that’s not true. I loved that man madly and deeply. I proved to myself I was capable of magic with another human being. I unearthed parts of me I didn’t know existed. How could I possibly regret that?
The regret I feel is for ignoring my gut that summer before he moved here — something was seriously amiss — and though I have no actual proof my sleepless nights and early morning searches for GPS trackers were enough for the jury of my heart.
I wish I knew why I felt those things, I certainly wish I hadn’t, but I did and I neither tried to prove or disprove them. I simply put one foot in front of the other in total denial and love and hope and resistance.
And now I’m afraid to check my mail.
Because I was wrong.