If I had known I could have left before I had feelings, before my heart was entangled with vines and blackberry brambles, before I became lost.

He’s been so careful.  People can’t be careful always, but he’s been so careful to cover his tracks, to keep everyone in their compartments.  He’s good at it because he’s always been that way.  He’s practiced it for decades.  He’s got it down to an art form.

On some level, I suspected it, because the unease was palpable, and I began looking for signs that something was amiss.  I didn’t resort to snooping, because the one time that I did left me feeling low and empty.  I remind myself that the feeling that I should be walking away is likely well founded.  Somehow I’m compelled to play with fire, even though I’ll likely get burned.

He invited me for dinner, wine and a movie.  He lit candles, chose a nice burgundy.  We started cooking steaks, vegetables and sweet potato fries.  Chatting and kissing in between preparing the meal, the unease diminished, but didn’t leave me.  He told me I was beautiful, but he never says that he loves me.  It’s been months.  That’s part of the source of the unease, of course.  The fact that he never says those three little words.  That’s when the vines in my heart grew thorns.

He left the room to check the steaks and my eyes fell on a greeting card on his desk.  It was laying out in the open.  The envelope was gone, discarded so it wasn’t apparent that it had been mailed or delivered at a special dinner.  I often peruse humorous greeting cards in the store.  This one had stuck out because it was perfect for D….except that I couldn’t pin down an anniversary for he and I.  I didn’t send it, but I had a good idea who had.  After wrestling with the notion of looking inside or pointing it out to D, he burst in and announced that the steak was looking good.  I stared at the card, but he didn’t pick up on my body language (although he had been smoking his salvia or whatever that fake dope is called).  He checked the fries, and I stared at his back while he happily chirped that he was so glad that I came over. 

I sipped my wine, appetite completely gone, and willed the tears not to well up in my eyes.  He hugged me from behind, kissing the top of my head and pulling me close, “I’m so happy that you’re here.”  I was silent for I knew that any word would give my distress away.  The vines tightened, driving their thorns deep.  When he released me and left the room I opened the card.

It was from L.  The realization that he was still seeing her was enough to make me want to run out the door, to run for hours until my feet screamed with the same pain as I held in my heart.  I wondered briefly if the pain was actually a heart attack from the shock, but then he was back, “Steak is ready to come off the grill!”  He brought it over, poking it with his finger, “It’s rare, but I think it’s done.  I can put it back on the grill for you.  How’s your wine?  Do you like it?”  He’s going to a great deal of trouble to make sure that I’m satisfied with the meal, the wine, his company.  I’m overwhelmed with the pain, and it’s got to apparent in my face, because he really shifts into high gear.  He offers me any condiment under the sun.  He’s purchased the pickles I said I was going to have  to try (a friend had recommended them), and unbelievably cracks the lid and offers me one.  With wine? 

At dinner he makes my plate, which he never does.  Piles it high with fries, vegetables and half the steak….my appetite might have been able to handle it before, but now….We sit down and I go through the motions of looking at my food and rearranging it.  I manage to eat the vegetables, one or two of the ghastly fries and a few tiny bites of the steak.  Tears prick at my eyes, and my hand automatically moves to my forehead…massaging as if I had I headache.  I will myself not to lose control now, but I can’t eat.  He offers to throw my steak back on the grill.  Then he can’t pretend to ignore my distress any longer.  Incredibly, he asks if I want to talk about it.  That drops my filters, “With YOU?”  I shake my head and rein in my disbelief, “No.  I can’t talk about problems with you.  I’m fine.”

I scrape my food into a container.  He’s upset that I barely ate, tries to draw me out, tries to engage me in a argument.  I stay quiet, responding neutrally, but an occasional tear escapes from a sad eye.  I’ve changed my steps in our dance.  He tries to salvage the evening by suggesting that we finish the movie we started watching the other night.   I nod, not really caring, but at a loss as to how I will escape.  I sit next to him in the den, unblinking eyes fixed at a point beyond the huge screen of the television.  Thinking.  He kisses my cheek, cuddles me close.  I don’t resist.  I don’t really respond much to the movie, because my mind is far away.  When it returns, it takes shots at me, asking how I could be so naive, so stupid, so blind.  The tears come a little faster now.  I excuse myself to get tissues.  When he asks if I’m okay, I lie and plead allergies.  He offers me Allegra.  I sigh, I take Zyrtec and it should last 24 hours.  So when he kisses my cheek or touches my face tenderly, he tastes my tears.  He doesn’t wipe the tears from his fingers, he just looks at them.  I don’t wonder what he’s thinking.  At one point I get up to use the bathroom and he leaves the movie on.  On impulse, I snatch up the card from his desk and ram it deep into my purse and return to the den. When the movie ends, he kisses me passionately, even if I have to stop to breathe.  He pulls me close, wanting to get romantic, but I’m not in the mood for love.  I’m also not int he mood for an argument so I “repay” his kindness.  He’s happy, but confused when I rise and put on my shoes…and walk through the house blowing out every candle he’s lit.  The growing darkness alarms him and he gets up in time to meet me at the front door, “You’re leaving?”  I nod, “I have to work an early shift in the morning.  Thank you for dinner.”  I turn away and he hugs my back, kissing the top of my head.  He promises to talk to me the next day.  I nod, even if I think he’s full of shit.

I drive away, shaking and in pain.  When I stop to get fuel, I pull the card from my purse.  It says, “Happy Ten Thousandth Anniversary!  Love L”.  I don’t allow myself a moment to feel guilty over snooping or taking a card away.  I tear it up and stash the pieces in a garbage bag.  Then I cry myself to sleep and wake up with my eyes swollen shut.

I don’t smile at all at work.  I run home between my shift and call to mow the yard and make dinner and spend some time with the kids. I fill K in on the whole story.  He tells me I should mail the card pieces to L and tell her that I’ve been D’s girlfriend for the past 3 years.  I tell him that there’s no reason to hurt L.  She’s an innocent victim in all this. 

I don’t tell K that I’ve had an epiphany.  I decide that L will always love D.  D will always love L.  I don’t fit into the picture.  I need to disengage and move on, even if it’s easier said than done.  Besides, D HAD to have noticed that the card is missing and surmised that I took it.  I’ll never hear from him again.

Devil me smiles, “You could put the pieces of the card and some dog shit in a paper sack and leave it on his welcome mat.  Just make sure that it’s blazing merrily when you knock on his door!”  K likes that idea, but I dismiss it as juvenile. 

As I head out to mow, my phone alerts me to an incoming text.  It’s from D, and it’s in response to a text that I sent him nearly a month ago.  He outlines how he can’t depend on me, that he can’t ask me for the smallest favor because I give him excuses and give up without even trying.  He goes on about the fact that I’m always late, always unreliable.  Then he says that he enjoys my company and wants to see me again.  He offers up that he’ll give me a chance (and it sounds like it would be the last chance) to take him out for sushi, just to give him the date and he would be ready.  I resist the urge to key in “FUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKK YOOOOOOOOOOOOU!”, which would have been appropriate.  While I mow, I run though replies in my mind, “How about I take you for sushi on the day that snowballs whistle through the air in hell?”, “How about asking L to take you out for sushi…or does she only go to places where there’s a senior citizen special since at the age of 57, she sure as hell qualifies?”  I giggle as I mow, even though I won’t key in any of those. 

After I get cleaned up, I reply in an unusual way.  Normally, I would have addressed the entire text.  I simply replied, “I will keep that in mind.”  It didn’t commit me to taking him anywhere, couldn’t be read as sarcastic or nasty.  It was neutral, not requiring reply.  I won’t be reaching out anymore.  My heart is full of thorns and vines and brambles.  I have no idea how to disentangle that mess.  Then I remind myself that it must be easy to be critical of someone who you don’t care about.  I wonder why he kept me around.  A vine loosened and I reached for it, but it snapped back and wrapped itself tighter. 

Angel me gently shakes her head, “That’s the problem.  He does care.”

I look at her, amazed, “He only cares that he’ll lose the sex.”  She looks at me, “He always said that the sex with L was fine.  He never complained about the sex with her.  As far as you know he’s been having sex with both of you all along.  It’s more than that, and you know it.”  I tell her that he’s been with L for years, that they’re comfortable.  They live in their separate houses and they have their separate lives.  He probably plays her like he does me.  Neither of us would ever give him the ultimatum.  We’re probably very much alike.  Angel me sighs, “You don’t get it,” she shakes her head, “You think he gets critical to keep you at arm’s length so that you don’t get too serious.  What is the real reason?”  I shrug, “I suppose he was spoiling for a fight when he sent this last text.  It was disjointed.  He’s always sworn that he delete texts and emails from me immediately.  Of course, that’s a red flag in itself.  He was afraid she’d see them.  That’s why I’m in the phone as ‘Cathy’, because that’s a generic name…like…Bruce…. which is the name of the fictional boyfriend that stepped in to date L when D and L supposedly broke up years ago.”  My voice trails off, and I realize that he did that to keep me around when he realized that I wouldn’t be a mistress. He was seeing L all along.

What will he do when he realizes that I’m easing out of this mess?  The tears and the change in my demeanor on Saturday rattled him a bit.  Not that I give the tiniest shit.  He gets up in the middle of the day to check the social networking site…odd behavior on his part since he is working 12 hour night shift for the next 3 days.  I note his presence by asking, “Why are you up?  You should be asleep.”  He engages in chit chat, sending out feelers, acting like all is well.  Angel me touches my arm, “Proof positive that he gives a damn.  If you were nothing he’d let all this ride, go back to L, and get on with his life.  He’d leave you flat.  He never really does that though, does he?  If you try to stay away, he works out a way to get back in your head and your heart.” 

This time I think I can end it all.  I will meet him to talk and tell him that he doesn’t love me, but that I know he loves someone else, and that she loves him.  I’ll tell him that I can’t get in the way of their love, and that it makes me feel like I’m complicating things.  That I feel bad.  Then I’ll say that I’m leaving him alone, so that I’m not interfering.  Besides, I need to find someone who will love me. 

Devil me laughs so hard that she falls on the floor, “You think it will be that easy?  How will you explain how you found out?  Will you say that a little bird told you?”  I look at her disgusted, “I should save the card pieces.  I’ll meet him somewhere public, of course.  We’ll take separate cars.  Maybe I’ll buy the same card, and sign it ‘Look familiar?  For once you weren’t careful.  Wishing you a long and happy relationship with the one you really love, because she loves you so.  You will be happy.  She’s a good girl.  I wish you both the best.’  Then I could get up and walk away.  He won’t have to deal with drama and emotions.  I won’t have to deal with a fight or more of his lies.  I won’t be cutting him down or bashing her.  I won’t be threatening.  It will just be over.  He won’t follow me out because he’ll have nothing to say”.  Neither of them are laughing now.

“He’ll have something to say alright,” Angel me says, “Don’t underestimate him.”

Work has been hectic.  The days have been long, called in early, staying over late.  I’ve taken assignments that others refused.  I’m comfortable now, part of the team.  Accepted.  It’s nice to be respected for the experience I have.  So different from the last job I held, where the faculty were treated like idiots by supervisors who were inept and unable to lead.  I still think that this job feels like ‘home’. 

Half of the week I’m sent to work on the ‘moneymaking’ side.  The surgeon who works in that section of Surgical Services is very demanding and arrogant.  He’s changing lives with the surgery that he does, and people come from all over the world to have him work on them.  He’s training associates and surgeons from other countries so that they can learn his techniques.  It IS amazing to think that I’m witnessing something that few get to see.  He’s only one of three surgeons doing these types of procedures worldwide.  Privacy prevents me from discussing it in too much detail.  I’m an unusually quiet and competent part of the team for the most part.  Anesthesia providers and regular staff know the dry and sarcastically funny side of me, though.  A little humor injected into a staid and formal work environment is a welcome change.  Even if I wanted to be nothing more than a generic staff member, that was not to be.  The associates, the visiting surgeons, and PA-Cs warmed up to me quickly.  They call to me down the hallway, “Are you in my room?”  The King doesn’t know my name, and that’s fine with me.  I’m the quiet professional, polite and helpful.  At the request of the associates I’m approached to ask if I’ll join their team.

I decline to be part of their team full time, but I tell the charge nurse that I’ll help out when I’m needed.  One of their team members is out with an injury.  I’m needed 4 days a week.  My supervisor appears in the Kingdom, his jaw set in a grim line, “I need to talk to you.”  I nod, realizing that I will be working on the King’s team for a long time.  We walk back to the ‘Main’, “You know I’m not going to refuse an assignment.  I’ll go where I’m needed for as long as I’m needed.”  He waved the notion away, “You are not going to be part of their team.  They want to take my best nurses.  They need to solve their own problems and not take good people from me.”  He’s pretty upset that one of the ‘rehires’ was accepted.  She was hired to work in the Kingdom, but they rejected her.  Now the Main is saddled with a nurse who has already declared that the computer charting is too difficult to learn at her age, and who isn’t interested in ‘scrubbing’.  I shrug, although it’s clear to me that she’ll not last through orientation.  All of us have to chart on the computer. My supervisor is adamant, “You belong in the Main.”

We part ways with him heading to HR and me continuing my journey to the Main.  I arrive to applause and cheers and laughter.  Some of the surgeons had plenty to say about my reassignment, even if it was temporary.  The old guard was upset as well.  One of the charge nurses pulls me aside to fill me in, “Management was very angry that you were sent over to the Kingdom two days in a row.  To make matters worse, there were trauma cases here.  G got suspended again as well, so we’re short staffed.  In short, it’s been hell.”  Sounds like their days have been as shitty as mine.  I nod, even if I can’t sympathize.

…..to be continued….

Just to spice things up, because – of course – it can’t always be about the weird and sometimes nonexistent relationship between D and I, I inadvertently insulted someone.

A casual friend was bemoaning a broken heart and many of his friends commented on his sorrowful post.  I told him that it would get better, that he shouldn’t waste time on an asshole who wasn’t kind to him always and that it would take time to heal because when we lose those we love they leave holes in our hearts….blah, blah, blah….  The whole thing sounded very much like a greeting card sentiment.  He and a couple of his friends gave it a thumbs up.  I resolved to check in with him in a few days to see how he was doing.  When I did he seemed to be bouncing back a bit, making jokes, and laughing that he was filling the holes in his heart with new shoes. 

This morning I log on to check in with my nieces who are visiting with an aunt who lives in another state.  There’s a message in my inbox (which I assume is from one of them, hopefully a photo of them enjoying time in the mountains with family).  It’s from a person I don’t know, sent at midnight, and worded close to this:  “You don’t know me, and you don’t know the situation.  By calling me an asshole you are not helping the situation.”

My first reaction was along the lines of “WTF?  When did I call this guy an asshole?  I don’t even know him.”

Then it dawns on me.  He’s the asshole who broke my casual friend’s heart.  Only now, they’re working things out, of course.  I remember the post.  I remember my comment.  I didn’t focus on his misdeeds, preferring to say “Yes, you are hurt.  It won’t be better tomorrow, but someday it will be.”  I remember some of the other comments that were really scathing and uncomplimentary.  Mine was pretty tame in comparison.  I wondered if he spent time keying in notes to everyone who besmirched his ‘unknown’ name.  I wondered if he was sitting there at his keyboard, drunk and spoiling for a fight.  Oddly, I didn’t want to verbally bitch slap him, even though it occurred to me that my casual friend is bobbing around in the same pot of boiling water that I find myself in. 

I carefully worded my response.  It sounded sincere and ended with an apology.  I have no desire to make it difficult on my casual friend.  He has enough to deal with if he’s seeing a guy who worries about what strangers think. 

D hasn’t realized that I can now see the exact time he’s read my emails.  I didn’t realize it myself until this morning, but there it was:  a time 05:52 and “seen”.  No response from him, of course.  He’s getting ready to leave for work.  He’ll check in again later when he gets home from work.  If I asked him he’d wave the question away, “I don’t have time for social networking sites.  I have so much to do.  I don’t check in for days.  Thinking of closing my account completely.”

“He’d close it, but then he’d have to worry about how you’re spending your time,” Angel me says.  She’s looking over my shoulder at the screen, shaking her head, “Honestly, he talks about the ‘drama’ and then he goes over your page with a fine toothed comb.  He barely speaks to the others.”  She’s referencing a friend who recently cleared out her contacts and added only four people of the original 67 friends from her high school days:  D and E (her two ‘crushes’ from high school), her “best friend”, and me.  On her birthday, I sent greetings and best wishes, and that’s when I discovered that she’d cut her contact list by over half.  I mentioned it to K, who laughed and said that she’d gotten pretty weird over the years, “I don’t miss her.  It’s just wrong to dress your family in themed Halloween costumes.  Did you see the Flintstone’s costumes?  Her son has to be 14 years old.  Who the fuck makes a teenager dress in a loincloth and carry a club?  She’s going to fuck that boy up.”  He laughs even harder when I tell him that I was one of the chosen 4, “I don’t know what to make of that, because she and I certainly weren’t close.  If anything we were rivals then.”  He asks if we’re still rivals.  I snort in disgust, “There never was any competition.  I was a better musician, got better grades, was more worldly.  I never threw that in her face. It was just the reality.  She was pretty sheltered.”

She was.  After high school, she immediately married and in less than 5 years she was divorced.  She beamed when I said that I was sorry that her marriage had not worked out, not because she was single but because I wasn’t married yet.  She’d beaten me at something.  Finally.  She was dating someone who had graduated in my class, a nice enough guy, even if he wasn’t all that bright.  I wished them well, and they went on their merry way, holding hands and looking very happy.  She ended up breaking it off with him a few years later, because she discovered that he was Jewish and had no intention of converting.  I was stunned when I saw his sister a few months after the break up and she told me, “They lived together for two years.  He took Jewish holidays off from work.  How could she NOT know?”

K tells me that maybe in her mind there is still a rivalry, “After all, you have a pretty different life from hers.”  I disagree, because she seems to be very happy and to have found her identity.  Her son and daughter seem pretty well adjusted (in spite of the Halloween costumes).  She’s doing fine, comfortable with herself and with her family.  I think she’s jettisoned most of her contacts because she doesn’t need them.   The few she’s kept are significant for one reason or another.  I understand the two crushes.  I understand her best friend.  I don’t understand why I made the cut, but it doesn’t matter.  When I go back to her page a few days later to see how her times were in a 1/2 marathon that she ran, I realize that I’m the only one of the four who remembered her birthday.  I realize at that moment why she kept me.  I give enough of a shit to say “Happy Birthday” and cheer her on for running 13 miles in an average time because most people can’t run that far.  Hell.  Most people can’t WALK that far.  When I tell K, he laughs and says, “So what?  She’s still fat.”

Devil me reminds me that D isn’t hanging out with the fair weathers either.  He’s been scheduled to work every weekend that he planned to go to motorcycle events or the outings with the fair weathers.  He’s been logging lots of overtime.  He showed me the work that he’d done on the house and the new “toys” he’d purchased.  “After all, the fair weathers aren’t going to just stop by his place unless he’s having a party,” she says in a disgusted tone.  It’s not lost on me that she’s really disgusted with me, “He’s shoved you away, and then he frets about the men who flirt with you.  By the way, are you going to meet with this G fellow?  He seems interested.”  I shrug.  G is a retired firefighter/paramedic who works in the emergency room at a hospital south county and in a physician’s office and who found me through a friend on the social networking site.  We’ve never met but we chat on occasion.  We certainly can talk shop.  I’m not certain what will come of it, if anything.  The guy works 6 days a week.  Interest in me only started when I recently put up a photo of my face. “Dumbass!  You’re wondering why he shows interest now?  He likely figured that you weren’t attractive and that was why you posted art photos for your profile photo,” Devil me giggles, “It’s always that way.  D probably realizes that and it makes him nervous as hell.  You should meet this G fellow.  Go have lunch together and see how it goes.  Maybe you’ll find out that he’s a nice guy and he’s a better fit for you than D.”

I continue to sort through dresser drawers in preparation of the move.  Clothes that don’t fit go in a bag.  Tattered old clothes go in another.  Charity.  Trash.  My friend A calls to say he can help me move a load tomorrow.  I decide that I’ll buy him lunch for his trouble.  I owe him quite a few lunches and dinners.  Angel me gives me a nudge, “A cares about you too.  He’s a little shy, buy you know he likes you.”  I tell her that he smokes, which is a deal breaker.  “He could quit someday, you know,” she smiles, “And you know he’s kind and he’s a good person.  He wouldn’t be a bad catch.”  I nod.  I’ve considered A to be a catch for some time.  We’re both too polite to make a move, but he’s another one who “makes sense”.  His parents are German.  His mother is also a nurse.   My grandmother was German, so culturally A and I “fit”. 

Of course, D is German/English/American as well.  We all know how well that worked out.

My phone buzzes with a text.  D, “I’m feeling better now, thanx”.  I stare at the screen for a moment before sighing and returning to my sorting. 

The work schedule is brutal.  Only one weekend off this month.  That will be for the big move.

D texts, telling me that his day was terrible and that he’ll be glad when he’s relaxing on his porch.  I’m working an emergency case.  I send out feelers.  Would he like me to stop by later and give him a back rub?  That’s all I’m offering, but it’s more to see what his intentions were.  He briefly considers it, then balks.  He says he’s tired (he’s been off for 3 days), that he’s “puking”. 

I text him, “I hope you feel better soon.  Let me know if I can help you.”

Angel me checks my eyes.  No light.   “I worry about you, ” she says.

I shake my head, “Don’t worry.  I’ve made a new friend.  Nothing will come of it, I’m certain.  But it will be someone to go to get a drink with.”

Devil me scoffs, “Just another asshole who wants a lay.  When will you learn?”

I look at the ground, studying what to say.  I sigh deeply before I answer, “I have to give it a chance.  It may work.  It may not.  Time will tell.”

I believe I will be correct. 

She’s backed off again.  When he peeks in the shell he finds it empty.  She’s left so footprints, no sign of where she might be, so he whistles to her.  He calls her name softly, but his answer is only the wind whispering in his ears.  She’s in the shadows, wary.  He thinks he can feel her presence, but he’s unsure.  He feels oddly alone.

**************

She keeps her eyes closed and draws breath silently.  Seeing him proved to be a grave mistake.  He bragged to a friend that she had stopped by and that they were “just friends, only friends….nothing more.”  She had wanted no one to know that she stopped by.  When the friend talked to her, she lied.  She denied stopping by.  Then she had sent a prim text asking him not to tell people that she had visited, that she didn’t like the questions it raised, that she wanted to keep her private life private.

*************

In her mind it was over.  When she visited him, her eyes had brimmed with hurt, her demeanor had been subdued and colorless.  She never smiled once.  He had to have noticed, because that was why he joked with her.  She hadn’t answered when he asked when she would visit again.  Later he would joke in a text that he would see her when she “got horny and needed sex”.  She had ignored the earlier texts but this one she read and quickly answered, “No.  It’s not like that.”

It’s not like that.  She would feel empty and alone.  That part had died. 

*************

Angel me gazes into my eyes, scrutinizing, examining, “The light is gone.”  Devil me stops pacing, “That’s impossible!  The light never leaves!  Look harder.  If anyone can find it, you can.”  She looks harder while I gaze unblinking, her eyebrows curve downward in a scowl, “I’m telling you.  It’s gone.”  Softly, “What can we do for her?  Without the light…how can she survive?  You know she has no..,” Devil me whispers, her skin white with fear.  Angel waves her words away, “Don’t say it.  She’ll be fine.  She’ll find the light again.”

“They never find the light once they’ve lost it.  She was upset in the past, but this time it’s different.  This time it’s final…..” Devil me says.  She cradles my face in her hands, but there is only blankness in my eyes.  She leans over and kisses my forehead, “I loved her most….”

************

The sharks waste no time closing in, calling, emailing, keying texts into their phones.  I shut off my phone and steer clear of the social networking site.  D texts too, light and fun.  It arrives while I have my phone on, while I wait to hear from the father of my son’s friend (he’s at a party at an arcade).  I don’t answer that one either.  I no longer know why he tries to stay in my good graces.  According to him we are “just friends”.   I’ve told him that he doesn’t need me for a friend, that he has enough friends.  He hangs on.

I back away.

Now I hide in the shadows…watching…silent… 

….He reaches in through the hole.  The growling has ceased, and she stares wide-eyed at the hand that has invaded her shell.  She crouches silently with her back to the inside of the shell that has failed her.  He stops short of touching her, withdraws his hand, and peeks into the hole. 

“I miss you,” he says. 

********************************************

He doesn’t really miss her.  She knows that.  Against her better judgement she agrees to see him one last time.  Everything feels wrong.  When she kisses him, when he shows her the work he’s done on the house, the television he purchased so he could watch out on his porch.   He teases her a little.  She sighs quietly, softly compliments the improvements he’s made.  He wants to go out to dinner, but it’s late.  He pulls out a coupon book that he’s purchased from a co-worker who’s kid is selling them to raise funds for his ball team.  He pages through it, asking what she feels like.  She doesn’t tell him that she feels like she should have stayed home.  She’s no longer hungry.  He ends up getting take – out Thai.  It’s not as good as it used it be, and he apologizes.

He never apologizes for hurting her, though. When she leaves, he kisses her at the door.  The kisses leave her feeling empty, and she feels like she’s failed.  She wills herself not to cry though.  She just reminds herself that she knew it was over all along. 

*********************************************

It will be weeks before she smiles again.

He’s crawled over the shell, looking for a way in, looking for a weak spot.  He listens to soft growls coming from inside the shell, because he knows that she’s lonely.  He also knows that the growls mean nothing.  She’s only intimidating to people who don’t know her well.  He knows every part of her body.  He’s held her in the dark.  The growling isn’t intimidating to him at all. 

There are weak areas, and that’s why she growls.  The growls won’t keep him away; she knows that it’s futile to resist, but she tries just the same.  He taps and slides fingers over the shell, patient.  He knows she’s there.  He has all the time in the world.  She growls inside the shell, but the growls sometimes sound uncertain.  He can hear that as well.  He breaks through a soft area in the shell.  It gives just a little, enough for him to slip a finger inside.  She growls menacingly as she backs into the wall.  He can hear that….He’s in. 

He’s smart enough to back off.

She paces, growling, looking at the rent in the ceiling of the shell.  As if she has nothing to worry about.

…back and forth with me breathing fire and him responding with single word replies.  It’s the easiest way to push my buttons.  He knows me well.  K calls me frequently for the update.  He regales me with tales of his latest conquest.  She’s a surprisingly attractive brunette (the last few women that he’s dated looked very “hard”) with a pretty smile.  They have an easygoing relationship, and I’m relieved that maybe he’s gotten it right this time.  He asks me about D.  He thinks it’s positive that I’m not running over to see him to retrieve my things.  I remind him that the things were from Wal-mart and Target.  It doesn’t matter if I get them back.

Mostly, I just work and slowly move into the new house.  When my boss call me in early, when I’m asked to stay late, I do.  I stay home with the kids.  Sometimes I go out and meet friends for dinner or drinks.  I feel very independent and confident that I can make it alone.

I also feel alone.  That’s bothersome.  The guys who flirt are much too young for me.   That’s not as flattering as one would think since having sex with an older, experienced woman is on so many 20-somethings bucket lists.  Nice to know that I’m an item on a list of things to do before one gets old. The guys my age don’t seem terribly interested.  They’re all very vocal about what they find attractive.  A few like “girly” girls with short skirts, fake nails, curvy figures.  A few go for the sporty type, the divers, the cyclists, the runners – the girls who are tanned and wear no makeup.  As soon as I started working, word spread that I perform with a dance troupe that specializes in middle eastern dance.  Dance is popular with the Filipino faction, but they’re all into Zumba now.  So, again, I’m a different animal.  I fit in with the staff because I’m good at what I’m doing, but it’s obvious to me that is the only fitting in I’ll be doing.  Not that I have a burning desire to “shit where I eat”, but it’s more than a little depressing just the same.

J is getting depressed.  He’s not working yet, so he helps out at his mother’s house, chipping away at the long list of “honey do” chores.  He calls and asks me to pick him up, they’re down to one car.  No problem.  I go in, meet his mom.  The house is cluttered, she collects things.  There isn’t much room to walk around.  The whole house is like that.  J needs to tackle that mess too.  He’s foggy when I pick him up, high on his muscle relaxants and pain pills.  I take him to dinner anyway.  He slurs his words, has trouble ordering food.  He’ll have one drink.  I’m nursing a headache so I decline stopping at the bar on the way home.  I drop him off at his mom’s house and take my headache home.  It lasts for 14 hours. 

Last night J called me at work.  He was so wasted that I could barely make out what he was saying, but I told him that it must be a bad connection with the phone.  It took a good five minutes to get a coherent statement from him.  C wanted us to meet him.  Where?  Was anything up (C just had a biopsy done)?  J laughs and says, “If is wasn’t an emergency I wouldn’t call you at work.”  Meeting at the bar.  J wants a ride.  I’ve gone in early and worked late 4 days this week.  J names the bar, a dirty, smoky biker bar, and I shudder.  I’m picking up my kids after work, and I’ll have to get dinner for all of us.  I can’t think of anything more depressing than sitting in a smoky bar with real bikers (because I KNOW I don’t fit there).

Because I’m finding out that I don’t fit anywhere.

J doesn’t even attempt to find another ride, and my phone vibrates in my handbag with a call as I pull into the driveway.  I text him when I get home at 10 pm, beg off because I’m tired and we’re all hungry.  I’m a little put off that he was brash enough to call me at work like I’m a taxi service to get a ride to the bar. 

Devil me cautions me not to let my friends use me as a doormat.  She isn’t too happy with J or K at the moment.  K announces that he’s coming down next month and expects to sleep on my couch.  I tell him that I will have to check my schedule.  I won’t know what I have for call.  I also need to get my oldest in to see the neurosurgeon at the Childrens Hospital, because he’s overdue for a followup. 

“They’re all wearing you down, you know,” she growls, “D senses that because you continue to go ‘back and forth’ with him.  He’s still looking for a way inside.  He knows you are lonely.  He knows your weaknesses.”  I nod.  Even pushing buttons is a way to keep communication open. I think of the two beautiful satin and lace corsets that arrived from the U.K. last week, I tried them on after my living room furniture was delivered.  The irony wasn’t lost on me that no one would ever see me wearing them.

“What you need to do…is take care of you for awhile.”

I nod, even though I no longer know what that means.

He climbs over the wall and inspects the shell, tapping with practiced fingers.  He’s done being discrete, because what worked in the past doesn’t seem to work anymore.  She was easy to win back before.  He could be cavalier about it all, let her stew until he was damned good and ready.  Even if she didn’t immediately break, he could usually find the right things to do and the right lies to say.  A week or two would pass and she’d come back.

He had taken to sending feelers out to their mutual friends.  Tentative, testing the waters.  The friends refused to budge, protecting her from contact with him.  Guards at the gate, ever vigilant in their mission to keep him out.  This was new, but he saw it as a challenge.  He’d find another way in. 

He hadn’t touched her in 2 months.  There were terse growlings  in her emails to him.  In the past she had growled when the sexual frustration had reached a certain point.  She was a horny little thing and it never took her long to “need” him.  She had to be aching by now.  He tapped on the shell in a different place. He ran a hand over the seamless shell, searching for a weak spot, a seam that he could open.  He tapped out messages on his phone.  He knew she was inside, for he could hear her breathing.

*********

Eyes glowed inside the shell, but the light was not that of love and longing.  Angel me watched the summer storm in my eyes.  Devil me smiles, but doesn’t laugh, or speak.  The tapping moves over the surface of the shell.  Fingernails scrape at a perceived flaw, and I turn stormy eyes to the source of the scraping.

The message appears, he’s accepted a friend request from a woman, Y,  who works with H; they’re dating.  She’s not wound on tight either, so she and H enjoy a stormy, drama-filled soap opera of a relationship.  H often dumps her for various bar flies, covered in tatts and sporting gold teeth.  Then they get back together and soon are screaming at each other.  I get requests from Y at the rate of one a week.  I refuse them, state that I don’t know her (I don’t).  The social networking site sends me a message saying that she’ll not be able to send another request.  The next week she goes into someone’s friend list, finds me, and sends another request.  I’m not stupid, H has mentioned her name.  I refuse to get involved.  I send a warning to D because H badmouths him too.  Y could be planning revenge or wanting to add a healthy dollop of drama to her soap opera love affair with my ex husband.

*********

He slips a finger into the seam where the message slipped out.  He’s feeling the rush of adrenaline while he keys in a reply, apparent by the errors in spelling and the odd punctuation.  He adopts his trademark “Gee whiz!  Thank you for watching my back”, slips in the standard excuses (I really don’t know how people sneek in).  Then the relief of contact makes him drop his mask of unflappable coolness, he promises to delete Y.  He doesn’t know what else to say so he compliments the growling thing in the shell, telling her that he won’t delete her, that she’s got good photos and that she’s a funny acquaintance.  He’s trying to make light, and he doesn’t see her eyes narrowing.  He tells her that “Only time will tell.  Only you can decide if we can be plubonic friends.”

*********

Devil me snorts laughter, “Correct his errors!”  I’m not sure if he’s trying to be funny or if he’s drunk.  I no longer know or care about his work schedule.  I stare at the screen, disgusted, arms crossed.  When I lay my fingers on the keyboard, the reply comes easily, epic in length.  It ends with “You don’t want me around period, so this whole “Only time will tell” crap is for the fucking birds. I want friends who want to be around me, who want to do things with me, and who don’t expect me to always pick up the tab for them,” and, “It’s not possible for me to go from what I thought was a boyfriend/girlfriend relationship to a platonic friendship. Time won’t change that. Besides, you wouldn’t want to do things with me anyway, unless I’m paying the bill and it’s the biggest and the best that money can buy. I think that acquaintance is about the best we can do.”

Angel me sighs, “It’s not over, you know.”  I nod.  With L, it HAD been different.  L had always come back.  D was an ego boost for her, a decade younger.  He had cheated every time they broke up, even if it was a booty call with some hideous gorilla from his running group.  He reasoned that she did the same, but she didn’t.  That was how he met B; she was just some woman he picked up in the bar, both of them desperate for a long term relationship.  He went between her and L for 18 months. He’s older now, and the only booty call left is planning her birthday party – she is turning 58 – and is currently involved with a manly woman.  The other booty calls have scattered, getting married, moving away, turning to fat hippie types or otherworldly new age.  He’s been working overtime, riding motorcycles, and doing work on his house.  He’s been avoiding the bars other than to pick the brains of our mutual friends.  With the new smart phone he can peruse the social networking site, moving around on the same pages.  He checks in often.  He’ll see my note tonight. 

He’ll back off again.  My birthday is this month.  That’s another weak spot.  Devil me looks into my sad eyes.  That’s a serious flaw in the shell.  I’m considering taking myself out to dinner, alone, somewhere nice.  Sushi, perhaps.  Then I can take the kids out since my oldest has a birthday the day following mine.  I’ll have all weekend to celebrate both birthdays with the kids.  Devil me doesn’t like the sound of that, “Eating alone may be peaceful, but it will give you time to feel alone.  You’ll be melancholy, and that will make you weak.”  Angel me nods, “Celebrate with friends and with the kids.  Don’t go out alone.”  I nod.  Maybe I’ll take the kids to the sushi restaurant for lunch.  We can eat outside if the umbrellas are up and the seabreeze is blowing.

*********

Later, he will read the note.  He will sigh and key in his response, “ok”. 

*********

K laughs when I tell him.  He sounds nearly giddy while he describes D’s distress – or at least how he imagines D’s distress to be.  He believes D is starting to get nervous that he may have lost me, “That’s why he’s all over this ‘I’ll explain xyz and then I’ll delete her.  No problem!!  I’m not going to delete you.  I like whats in you photos and your funny as an aquantence’.  If you told him to kiss your ass, he’d run right over.  He can’t even be cool about it.  That’s how bad he wants you back.”  He laughs heartily, “The best part is he’s acting like you’re playing hard to get, when in reality you don’t want to be with him!”

I don’t tell D, or J and K for that matter, but when I catch myself thinking of D I remind myself that he doesn’t want me, that he had nothing but criticism for me, that he doesn’t want to do anything with me.  He only wanted to have sex, that’s all.  Then I remind myself of all the criticism he had for my body and my performance in bed.  It’s sobering, leaves me feeling unattractive, empty, alone, and sad, but it keeps me from going back to D. 

I don’t tell D any of that because it wouldn’t make a difference.  I don’t know how he defines “friend”, but from the one’s I’ve met, I can see that I don’t fit. 

Like H, it’s apparent that D isn’t ready to let me go.  H was smart enough to apologize and make promises.  D only looks for weak spots to slip back in to my heart, not because he loves me, but because alone sucks.  I dismantle his reasons for contacting me, reminding him that he has enough platonic friends, that he can find his own photos.  I remind him that he wouldn’t do anything with me anyway so there’s not point in being anything more than acquaintances.  Devil me catches the sigh and reaches over to pat my arm.  It’s all part of disentangling myself from his bullshit.  I don’t need to live the lie.  It’s demeaning.  When I close the note, I go to bed and sleep in spite of the pounding headache I have.

**********

If only I could abandon this shell as a decoy.  I could go far away where he could never find me.