You call me decades later which is not only weird but a huge mistake. You shouldn’t have waited that long. If you had called me even ten years ago when I was at a low point in my life and fragile enough to consider meeting you it could have happened. As it stands now, there may have been a tiny chance of me saying yes (just out of curiosity) if you had asked me what I’ve been up to all these years and not I don’t know how many men you’ve slept with since we were together. Now the painful memories of our downward spiral flood in: the long blond hair on your pillow; the single silver earring tangled in your sheets, the menstrual blood and semen soaked into the homemade quilt I spent three months making you for Christmas. And that love letter from her I found three weeks later stuffed in a book. What were the chances of me finding a letter hidden in a book out of the hundreds you had in your room? Out of all those books I picked that one to read (Dylan Thomas?) and there it was, written on pink paper with a spritz of cheap perfume floating to the floor after you swore you weren’t seeing her anymore saying how amazing Tuesday night had been with your thick cock and hot kisses. What were the odds of me finding that note? Even the universe could see we were a disaster. Even the universe wanted me to get the message. For years I believed your bullshit but when the veil of denial cleared and all your transgressions were finally revealed, I stitched them together like I had done with that sad, bloodstained quilt and made a burial shroud for our future instead. They still pop in occasionally, those memories. And more. Like that party at Paul’s when you disappeared for an hour with Sarah something (I can’t remember her last name). You know, the skinny one with the long black hair? I know you fucked her. Paul knew it too. Both you and what’s her name denied it, of course. How stupid you must have thought I was. But I wasn’t stupid. I was in love. The girl I was then couldn’t see what was happening right before her eyes like you were a magician only instead of a rabbit it was my heart you pulled out of a hat. Even that time when we were in line at Nathan’s Hotdogs wasn’t enough to make me believe. You know, the time when you nudged me and said, pointing to the hot blond in tight white jeans in front of us, doesn’t she have a great ass? like I was one of your shitty friends who were there with us, by the way, and laughed and hooted and ignored me like I was invisible. Like I had already faded from your world. Anyway, it’s none of your fucking business how many lovers I’ve had since but I will say this: they were all better than you. Every single one of them. 

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