Yes, my darling, I still harbor such anger at her. You promised you’d never sleep with her. Have never slept with her. That I’d had nothing to worry regarding her.
Ah, but she made you feel so good didn’t she? Her nanny-ing talents that make her so wonderful with kids also makes her so wonderful with adults. And she’s definitely fun.
I saw you together. I know there was never anything sexual. I know that.
But this anger and hurt was brought on by a photo from last year (yes, I really have to leave Facebook alone)–a photo of you and all your old entrepreneur friends and V. She shouldn’t have been there, yet there she was. A place I’d often been and was excluded from that night…
I look at that and am reminded that infidelity isn’t only sexual. I look at that and wondered how much more patience you might have had for me if your bosom buddy hadn’t been a gorgeous women who is good at making men feel good. Without her filing the holes my illness added to our lives, would you have had more compassion for me? Would you have tried harder? Or would have one of your other friends ended up being your cheat instead?
I don’t have those answers. Never will. It’s just the past, random moments in time, holding only the values I ascribe to them.
And I have to let all of it go. Maybe some of it can just stay here, writing out the pettiness. Here it goes: Fuck V. Damn her and damn you too. You owed me better, even if I owed you the same. Fuck her. Fuck you. Go to hell.
All my love.