The masochist that you are, invite him over for Dinner. You say you’ve forgiven him, and you understand it’s over but that you should stay friends. He wouldn’t believe it, he really shouldn’t, because he knows the games he’s played have left their marks in your heart that that are tough to forget. Even if the truth was otherwise, his ego wouldn’t let him believe that.
And he actually doesn’t care much about your forgiveness but is probably hoping for some time between the sheets so he accepts your invitation, while this is about closure for you. Is it really though? Closure? If you’re being honest, this is about getting your revenge.
You’re hoping he’d notice your siren red Balayage and black matte lip color, the skimpy clothes with little left to imagination. He called you a Nun, didn’t he, that bastard? Well he doesn’t have to imagine, does he? He’s seen all your stretch marks and made fun of them too. But you let him do that because you were insecure about them too.
But look at you now, all the obsessive thoughts and overthinking about those words that bothered you got you here, 20 pounds lighter. If you feel weak, that is just alright. Your reflection in the mirror is telling you that he’s going to take a second look at you, like that is the moment that is going to define your future, this other you that he won’t get to have but only look at. You want to punish his desires like that.
The doorbell rings, and with your sweaty palm on the lock, you take a deep breath, a double check on your appearance and open it with a plastered smile on your face. When he walks in, you know that you’ve achieved what you meant to. He lets out a slow whistle, unapologetic leering admiration. But you still hold the air that you breathed in before he entered, waiting for words to confirm what you think you see in his eyes.
‘Ooooh Babe, since when did you turn so hot, I guess you should thank me for this!’ comes the underhanded complement that is familiar ground, but you still take it with a rush of breath you finally let out. Because you were craving for something, some indication that he’d noticed the changes. So you’ll take whatever you get.
You’re at the table, only half listening to the yapping from his mouth. No, you’re more conscious of the way the food goes into your mouth, and if your posture is right and if you look sexy enough. You’re hoping for something suggestive from him, at which point you can get all excited to decline the invitation. You’re only fooling yourself. You forgot to mention the somewhat sick and disturbing memories that keep resurfacing. You keep telling those thoughts, not today.
Did I mention you’re a masochist? You are. You are serving him poison, you are laying it in front of him, where he can grab it. You are trying to entice him with it. In order to make him believe, you are also consuming the venom with a plastic charm. The venom is in you. It is you. You think that this will soon be over, you are waiting for the high of rejection he’s going to face, that would be worth all this. Your antidote. But under the table, are your nails drawing blood from the palm of your hand.
There is your struggle, confused between reality and deception. You’re feeling the toxins changing your clarity as well. You tried to play his game and with your heart on the line, you’re wondering if you’re being played as well. After all, you learned this from the master himself.
As she gets to this part of the narration, she suddenly pushes back her chair as if even typing out those words started to infect her as well. She pants heavily as if woken up from a nightmare. She tries to make sense of her surroundings and goes for the water bottle on the desk. She gulps a few mouthfuls of water and gives herself time to calm down. She thinks briefly and picks up her phone.
She makes a call and waits a few seconds till the beep. ‘You know what, fuck you. You piece of shit!’ she says before hanging up.