I am not proud of being this hurt by his treatment. I’m even ashamed that my go-to at times like these is so much junk food my up till now sugar-free body will probably go into shock.
I need it, okay? I feel worse than bubble gum under a fat person’s shoe. And Chrissie isn’t helping.
“That piece of shit!” she yells, springing to her feet to pace.
“Yup.”
“That piece of sewer-processed rat shit!”
“Yup.”
“And you didn’t kick him in the balls?” she asks for the millionth time.
I can understand her frustration, but seriously, he hasn’t just sex dumped her.
“I told you what I said and did, Chris. There’s nothing more, nothing less,” I say around another spoon of chocolate-covered ice cream.
“Well, this is just pathetic! Get up and go put on the dress I gave you. Now!”
Whoa.
“Why? I just want to sit here and stew a little bit before going into a sugar coma,” I say glumly.
“I said, get your ass up and get dressed. There are a lot of other guys you could be doing right now who wouldn’t treat you like a venereal disease. We’re going out,” she says decisively.
Oh crap.
***
“Is this great or what!”
I turn away from Joe…Something, I can’t quite remember, and smile brightly at where Chrissie is rubbing up against a conquest down the bar.
Yup, this is pretty great, I think, downing my seventh tequila shooter as Joe eggs me on. I can’t believe I wanted to stay home and mope. I also can’t believe I’ve spent the last three years trying to turn myself into a robot when there’s so much more to life than asshole husbands. And recent sex partners who treat you like crap.
No, there are genuinely nice guys like Joe, who want nothing more than a few good dates and some sex. I mean, I can do that. So what if Joe doesn’t have golden blonde locks that curl ever so sexily, or eyes the colour of smoky whisky.
I like Joe. He makes me feel desirable and wanted, not cheap and degraded.
“I mean, can you believe that, Joe?” I ask again, taking a slug of lukewarm beer.
“No, baby, the guy’s an idiot. You stick with Joe and you’ll get the five star treatment,” he assures me, sliding a fresh beer my way.
My stomach chooses that moment to heave precariously, and I swallow and wave as I dodge and weave my way to the bathroom. I am not used to drinking this much, and it’s showing as I fall into a stall and puke till my liver tickles my throat.
“Oh, Gooooood.”
“You okay, Han?”
My moan of suffering makes her giggle, and I raise my head enough to shoot a mascara-smeared glare at her.
“I think…need go…” I swallow convulsively and puke again. “Home.”
“Well, come on then, lightweight, let’s get you home.” She laughs, and I allow her to sling my arm over her shoulder and walk me out into the fresh summer air.
“You like Joe?”
“Eh. He’s okay I guess,” I slur, falling into the cab.
By the time we reach our building and pay the cabbie, I’m almost unconscious.
“You okay, Han?” Chrissie asks when we hit the elevator, and I turn green from the swift upward motion.
“M’great! I just need a few minu’s till my stomach settles. Screw him!” I yell suddenly, feeling the need to vent.
We’re giggling while singing the chorus to Scrubs as we stumble off and wobble our way to my door. Chrissie stop abruptly, and I teeter on my heels so violently we fall against the wall.
It’s only when she doesn’t help me up that I realize something’s wrong, and I look up to see Gregory leaning against my door.
“Aagh! You!”
“What the hell is wrong with her?” he growls at a mutinous Chrissie, grabbing at my arms to keep me steady as I rise.
“We went out to celebrate her first sex since her divorce three years ago,” she snarls through thin lips and narrowed eyes. “We thought she should at least earn her hooker badge, since she got treated like one.”
I giggle, unaccountably amused by the way she’s phrasing everything, until I realize she’s telling him exactly what I strove so hard to deny at his house.
“Sshh,” I hiss into her ear.
“No! If he’s got the balls to do it he can most certainly cop to it. So what are you doing here, Mr Big Shot? Decided one round of whorehouse wasn’t enough for the night?”
Gregory narrows his eyes at her and snarls.
“She’s falling down drunk!”
“Better than her crying while she eats a gallon of ice cream!”
I watch as they glare at each other, their stances so aggressive it’s like watching two lions circling a carcass. I’m the carcass, apparently, and while I am drunk, I am most certainly not too drunk to put them straight.