So, there we were; the 3 of us reunited (me, Brooklyn & my EX). But everything was different. It felt as if the four walls of resentment, anger, hurt and sadness were closing in on me. I felt isolated, claustrophobic and completely detached from the man that used to “complete” me. I wished for the power of teleportation but was forced to squeeze through the maze of emotions built by accusations, blame and fault-finding. It was like having a conversation with a complete stranger but secretly knowing intimate details of his life. I could read his mind, finish his sentences and anticipate his reactions to everything I said. I wasn’t physically attracted to this stranger, but I invited him into my bed at the end of the night anyway. Strange, I know. But, it seemed almost stranger to sleep in separate beds. We had never been in the same house and slept apart. Oh, except for our prenuptial visits to my parents when they made us sleep in separate rooms. They’re old-school.
So, just like old times, the 3 of us crawled into bed. But this time, we weren’t all snuggled-up cozy and lovey-dovey on the hand-crafted, queen-sized bamboo bed built for us on our Mexican honeymoon. Instead, we were laying stiffly, uncomfortably and separately on the West Elm bed that marked my 1st big purchase as a newly single woman. Brooklyn’s little 18 pound frame served as a clear dividing line, marking our territory on the full-size mattress. I was curious to know if my EX would dare cross that line during the night and try to get his swerve on in familiar territory.
But, he didn’t budge. He slept soundly while I stared at the metaphoric, crumbling ceiling of my Lower East Side hovel. I couldn’t wrap my brain around his ability to sleep at such a pivotal time in our lives! I was seething. He was about to lose ME, his wife... forever! Had he already shut me out of his heart completely? I remember when he used to live and breathe for me; how he carried that special glow for me in his eyes. So, how could it be so easy to let me go? Didn’t it hurt to feel me slipping away? Why didn’t he wanna to fight for me? For us? Part of me was tempted to “inadvertently” slide my body into his to see if I’d get a “rise” out of him. I so badly wanted him to make a move so I could leave him with blue balls, and me, with what would’ve felt like the upper-hand in this whole situation. But I didn’t let myself. I just lay there sleepless, hopeless.
The time was ripe for hyper-analysis and self-loathing. Who was that irresistible skank 8 months ago that caught the attention of my man? Did I know her? What did she have that I didn’t? Was she prettier than me? Sexier than me? Better in bed than me? Yeah, I went there. And, how did she lure my EX into her hotel room? Did she have to coerce him or was he that easy? Or, was it the other way around? How many times did they do it? Did he navigate her body the way he used to navigate mine? Did his conscience ever flash images of me across his mind as he played me dirty? And at what point did the guilt set in; before or after he came? Did he ever once feel guilty? Or did they shamelessly cuddle when it was over? Did they spend the night in each other’s arms wishing it would never end? And, was it really just a one-night-stand with a stranger as he claimed or had they been carrying on a surreptitious affair ever since? Oh, I hated him so deeply that night as he simultaneously snored and ruined my life.
That was the last time we slept together. The last time we shared a bed. And the last time I’d see him for a long time. He was off to Europe. I was truly alone.