women's assorted bags

It’s been at least 20 hours since I saw it in your carry-on bag. Like a fresh coat of paint, the haunting scene remains stained on the four walls of my mind. I became crippled by fear; the numbness traveled transversely through my body.

A thousand needles of ambivalence injected themselves into my veins; they coursed through my bloodstream as naturally as water flowed along the river bank. Truly, I couldn’t help but feel sick to my stomach just looking at it. What would ever possess you to do such a thing man-child?

Tucked away in your favorite pair of grey sweats was an entity destined to tear us apart. It smirked at me, even cackled at my discomfort. I felt like I was placed in a plasma chamber, completely submerged in the wet slime of schadenfreude.

I was on the verge of having a panic attack, a mental breakdown – hell, I think those terms are actually understatements for what I was feeling during this time. The phrase “existential crisis” seems a bit more apt.

But I couldn’t let myself go in that moment, despite the volatility of my emotions. Tempestuous as they may be, I needed to pull it together and fast!

You were in the bathroom, regretting that third beef burrito from that Mexican food truck around the corner, “La Carne”. The air was mutilated by the horrid stench of your insides coming out. And honestly, the stench mirrored my disgust for you man-child.

For a split second, I thought I had too much to drink again. Certainly, it would make sense if this was all some kind of twisted, dark, inebriated nightmare. However, the more I blinked, the realer it all became.

Holding it in my bare hands boiled my blood and made my cold to the touch at the same damn time. After three years of togetherness, this felt like the ultimate betrayal.

selective focus photography of assorted-color balloons

On top of that, I hate surprises. I always have and you know it. Especially since last year I punched your dad square in the throat for startling me at my own surprise birthday party. “Happy Bir-HUUUUH!”, he croaked in pain before hitting the floor like a nuclear bomb.

The wailing from the ambulance sirens stays with me to this day and resound internally every time I see your father.

The only silver lining to come of that incident was your mother finally warming up to me. Come to think of it, she was pretty much smiling when it all happened.

Her eyes gleamed as she called me by given name for the first time ever that night. “Oh Natalie, It’s okay my darling. Accidents happen. We all get what we deserve”, she assured casually pulling me into an embrace.

What ever happened to being labelled Drew’s “cheap thrill”? That cat-faced bitch. The amount of Botox in her face is enough to bridge the poverty gap in the UK. Even grapefruit can’t hold a candle to her level of bitterness. She was a supreme monstress.

Then again, it’s to be expected. The Stevenson’s are an affluent bunch. Ever since Drew’s dad saw major returns on his Bitcoin investments eons ago, he became somewhat of a business mogul overnight.

He started investing in stocks and multiple five-thousand fortune companies, with great success. With money well within their reigns, they had to become even more protective of their kids.

Additionally, with Drew being the youngest of the two and the only boy, their scrutiny and over-protectiveness was unsurprisingly pervasive in his dating life.

In fact, when I first met Drew’s parents after only three months of dating, they seemed rather unimpressed with my work as a writer and visual artist.

They thought their son, the seed of their inheritance needed to be with someone who had an “actual job”, a degree, disposable income, someone rich. Not some “gold-digging red-head with no ambition or couth”.

Coddling you from fetus to twenty-five, they carved one hell of a man-child. A man-child who continues to disappoint them with your questionable life choices. And I just so happen to be another item queued on the list.

Starbucks Coffee building during daytime

You took a break from pursuing your Bachelors in Marketing because you “needed a breather”. That’s when you met me, flat on my ass from the fall of yet another blundered relationship.

We met at a Starbucks downtown where we got into an argument because I skipped you on the line. I didn’t care though. In the end I got my Grande White Chocolate Mocha and you got laid in the bathroom. You were so cute.

Of course after being banned from that particular location, we decided to exchange numbers and keep in-touch. The rest is history.

And now, three years later, after all we’ve been through, you dear mock the daughter of a shepherd?! Are you out of man-child mind?!

Alerted by the echoing cries from the toilet flushing, I swiftly placed it back in your sweatpants and rearranged everything as I met it. As expected, you didn’t suspect a thing.

All you know was that I was looking for a pair of mini-hoop earrings I never lost in the first place. Deciding to couch my feelings with humor, I joked about me needing my own fumigation squad to continue in this relationship.  

As we both laugh and spray cans of Glade into the air, hoping to restore the room to breathable conditions, I couldn’t help noticing the sense of foreboding also diffusing.

Mentally reliving the past couple of hours has left me drained, to say the least. So much so, that the once so vivid supercut of events leading up to this moment suddenly fades to black. Finally, I fall asleep.

I open my oracles of judgement, begrudgingly taking in the sun’s bothersome rays. And judging by my current level of bitchery, I’d say I was out for at least 2 hours. 

The turbulence that taunted us from the last flight made it damn near impossible to get any rest. Luckily, my body had no qualms with shutting down midway to The Bahamas.   

A two-week, tropical vacation with my favorite man-child seemed right up my alley. If only I wasn’t so damn dreadful and if ever this plane would land.

Honestly, with my thoughts eating me alive this flight was starting to feel more like a never-ending joyride to hell, as opposed to a 3-hour glide into paradise. 

Not to mention the six-foot-two, 200 pounds of asshole sleeping beside me. Just look at your stupid, drooling face. The quintessence of innocence, of beguilement. My beautiful man-child. 

As the sunlight meets that mountainous head of yours, it showcases your beauty. It makes light work illuminating all that’s seemingly just about you.

Your features have never looked so polished. Smooth, somewhat pale skin contrasts effortlessly with your short, jet-black hair. That chiseled chin, tucked warmly underneath your five-o’-clock shadow. 

I know I told you how much I hated it, but I lied. Even though it’s like kissing a porcupine’s ass, I love it.

The way your stubble pierces my skin serves as a reminder of how much pain I’m willing to endure for this to work. For us to work.

I’d be insane to leave such a pretty mug in the annals of time.

Yet, I can’t help but wonder what if– WHAT THE? What on God’s Earth is that smell?!

Wait a minute…DID YOU JUST FART IN YOUR SLEEP?!

Goddamn man-child!

Immediately following your gaseous assault, you open your cloud-grey eyes and yawn monstrously. “Hey Nat, are we there yet?”, you ask with impatience seeping through your tone.

I shake my head in the negative, “Not yet babe, we’ve got about an hour more to go”. Etched across my face is a smile more plastic that your mother’s face.

Although I answered you sweetly, I was up to no good. Admittedly, I was already concocting my plan, basking in the ruination to come.

You resume your slumber, as you should. The sunlight now graces me with its presence. But instead of accentuating my beauty, it casts a shadow. It’s a shadow large enough and dark enough for my façade to live on comfortably.

And as brave the horizons of our two-week adventure, I’ll ensure with every fiber of my being that nothing goes according to your plans. Because I know what’s best for us.

So by all means, rest up, babe. You’re gonna need it.

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