Oof. It’s only a Wednesday night.

As I make my way into the bar, I feel like I look like Brigitte Bargot in her prime and after the night I’ve had, I’m drinking like a super model in the 1960s for sure. The shots of tequila work quickly as I haven’t really managed to eat anything substantial in the last 12 hours.

Am I really ok with being at a bar where my ex is and reigns supreme with everyone here? Or am I punishing myself by doing this? Do I kinda like the pain?

Even with these doubts, I for some reason still arrive at this occasion. Not only that but I’m welcomed and encouraged by people who claim “I’m so happy you’re here” and “we’ve missed you around”. This overdoses my ego and I suddenly feel ok with this silly decision of showing up. 

I take another tequila shot. 

I feel sexy and wanted and I drink champagne straight out of the tiny bottle given to me without hesitation… Or just realizing the bartender is drunk and forgot to give me a glass.

After a while, and several smooth yet obvious attempts of avoiding me in conversation (by said ex), I realize I’m an idiot…. This night was dumb and I only feel like shit by being here. I want to cry and leave but my pride keeps me drinking and laughing if only to numb the pain. I mention this weird interaction to him, only to be welcomed with a “I don’t know what you’re talking about… I’ve been busy tonight… I’m not avoiding you.” This in turn, makes me feel even more stupid and vulnerable. 

And I take another tequila shot.

The flurecent lights in the unkept bathroom remind I worked 12 hours and should be in bed but for some reason I stick around for just “one more drink”… Blaming it on my friend who arrived late to the party but really I know I half expected my ex to ask me to come home with him. Mostly because I wanted the opportunity to say no but also because I wanted the opportunity to say yes. (He doesn’t ask mind you). Actually he doesn’t really acknowledge me leaving. 

The thing is he didn’t ask. 

The thing is you didn’t ask. 

You barely said two words to me. And yet I kept hoping you would. And I knew better. What did we have to say to each other? I knew I was setting myself up for failure and I still accepted the feat. I dove in. I jumped in actually, both feet first. Regrettably so. Actually, not regrettably so. It’s a lesson in humility that I think I needed.

I get home in a cab and I want to cry; mostly because I’m drunk and tired and don’t know what else to do. Some because I realize that I miss you, even just a little. But I don’t cry. I don’t want to wallow in self-pity anymore and no one did anything specifically wrong tonight. It’s a weird night and I try to salvage any dignity and shoot you a text saying “nice to see you. I didn’t mean to be rude if I came across that way”. I didn’t really expect a response but I got one. A pretty cryptic one that included a maybe compliment on how I looked that night. My brain is spinning. I don’t know what’s really going on and this time I can’t blame the tequila. If I’m being honest I wish you would text and say you’re coming over. Not ask, just do it. But maybe that’s my wishful thinking. Surely so, I know it’s best if you don’t respond that way. 

Instead I’m going to eat chips and salsa and watch 90210 until Brandon Walsh puts me to sleep. 

Oof. It’s only a Wednesday night.


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