So me, my EX, his homey, and Brooklyn headed downtown on foot toward my Lower East Side apartment. I was actually happy my EX brought his homey as “the buffer” because, otherwise, I wouldn’t have known how to tamp down my emotions to avoid an explosive and embarrassing scene on the street. Conversely, silence would’ve been equally awkward and uncomfortable. Good thinking!
I gave my EX the privilege of holding Brooklyn’s leash for their final walk together before he abandoned her too. And, the privilege of helping her figure out how to do her “business” on city sidewalks rather than the big patches of grass she was accustomed to in Los Angeles. Meanwhile, I carried on meaningless conversation with “the buffer”. I could’ve cared less the topic of conversation. I just needed to endure the excruciatingly painful time spent in the presence of my EX. In fact, I don’t remember engaging in any dialogue with my EX but I do specifically remember uttering two phrases that either referenced him or were directed to him: 1.)“He’s dead to me” which I proclaimed adamantly to “the buffer”. Who the hell knows what prompted my exclamation except, perhaps, the need to state my unwavering anger for the betrayal he shoved deep inside my heart. I wanted my EX to be clear about my emotional stance; even if I didn’t have the courage to tell him to his face. A little later came phrase number 2.)“Do you wanna spend the night?” which I offered directly yet inexplicably to my EX. WHAT? What was I thinking? How could those words have rolled off my tongue without sufficiently being processed in my brain first? “Sure, thanks” he replied.
Damn. So now I was in a situation. My subconscious mind was obviously crying out for something but, my conscious mind, had yet to be notified. What was I supposed to do with hours of alone time with my EX? And why would he say “yes” to such an irrational proposition? Did he miss me? Was he hoping to explain the error of his ways and apologize? Ohmigod, did he think he was getting laid? Hells, naw!
We said goodbye to “the buffer” and our broken little family of 3 walked into the kitchen/bathroom of my LES hovel. I was almost proud to show him the existence he had reduced me to. An apartment with broken floorboards that gave me visual access to the sale rack of the clothing boutique below. The claw-footed bathtub that doubled as a kitchen counter. The naked lightbulbs, the constantly running toilet, the stove that had to be lit with matches, the crumbling ceiling that left particles of plaster on my bed; the only piece of furniture that fit into my “bedroom”. And, all of my worldly possessions shoved under that bed in the suitcases that travelled with me from Los Angeles. This was my world and I loved the shock value it provided.