Let's Dance

I frost him that night.

He'd not answered the text about the dinner plans, so I send a snarky text about it telling him to forget it.

He got the message - the text and the underscoring. Sensed that I was pissed. Called to feel me out. I was short and not very sweet.

And then I ignored him for the rest of the night.  No replies to texts. No phone calls.

But it's not like he called me either.  He was probably too busy paging through his high school yearbook looking up cute underclassmen that he never had a chance to bag because he was always running back to that pock faced bleach blond who played the clarinet or the flute or some dainty little piss ant thing with us in the band.

But the next morning, after I had barely slept and after what little sleep I had gotten had been routinely  punctuated with horrifying dreams of being in a bar stark naked or showing up at a party and having all my teeth fall out, we talked on the phone. From my kitchen, not while I was driving as I normally would. I needed to focus. And focus my anger. And did not want to give him the satisfaction of prematurely ending the conversation because I've pranged my SUV into a bridge piling and careened into the river. 

I confronted him with what I knew and a little bit about how I knew it. But not all the details. Some of them. Enough to make him think I know everything and enough to be able to tell if he began to lie. And like a man, he admits to more.  Not worse, just more. More contacts, more conversations.  I am physically sick.

But he maintains that he has done nothing wrong. His intentions were not what I think they were. He reminds me that he told me he had friended the Drill Team Chippy and the Heisman Trophy Winner. I am making something out of nothing. I am basing everything on Facebook (sound familiar?)

And he had told me about Big Tits and Broad Shoulders. While we'd been in Florida celebrating his 50th birthday.  I had been confident and secure when he'd told me.  Happy that he could tell me. I was not freaking out that he would talk to an old flame or an old friend. God knows I have my old flames and my old friends I talk with! Scads of them.

But what he'd not told me were the circumstances.  He'd not told me he'd pursued them. He'd not told me his slippery underhanded approach to each of them.  He'd not told me because it would have made a difference.

But he'd told me so he could some day say he had under exactly these circumstances, and perhaps to relieve himself of the guilt he'd been feeling about it as we lay on the sand in paradise enjoying a beautiful trip together. A trip I'd planned to celebrate HIM. 

And now there was nothing left to do but tap dance.  And he'd better warm up first.