Whiskey.

It’s complicated. I don’t want to get into the nitty-gritty details of how I fell in love with a man that could never be mine. I blindfolded myself and walked into the trap entirely aware, so I am eighty percent guilty.

Make that eighty-five.

The collateral damage happened in Johannesburg, although I had met him a long time ago somewhere in the world.

I planned the whole thing in my head just after my seven months wait for someone was in vain. Long story short; I allowed myself to think that a guy (let’s call him Mr Seven Months) was into me, when, in fact, he wasn’t. The signs were all there, the biggest one being when I caught him in bed with another woman.

You would think I cut my losses after that, but nope, I was still holding on to some faith, slept with him and two days later he said he was not into me that way. True story. He pulled a “Bye Felicia” on me and probably went to his Becky with the good hair, who knows? That was that.

I toats felt like I was really a Romcom character, except that there was no happy ending to the long dreadful romance gone completely wrong in my life.

Anyway, this isn’t really about Mr Seven Months. He should never have been casted for this movie, because, which antagonist walks away victorious in the movie I’m starring in? He was just an extra trying to steal my limelight, if you ask me.

This is about another guy. Let’s call him Whiskey. This is about Whiskey. Whiskey was in Johannesburg for a little while and so we rekindled the old spark, we vibed, one thing led to another and by the time I woke up, I was already drowning, because Whiskey was and is still a married man.

Oh, no – it’s not like the bomb in the story. I always knew this.

That’s what happens when you use your body to get over one man with another.

I reprimanded myself in judgment.

When they go back to their wives (not that they ever left them), you ask yourself; “Did I imagine what we had?”

You are never certain. It’s a human default to always want to glorify what we mean to people we fuck. Especially because you can never own the experience of what you had with him because it was hush hush, it will never be certified. I knew all of this before because my good friend had the courtesy of always sharing her experience being a side chick;

You’ll be his, but he’ll never be yours.

Yea, but this is different. We connect like….

All side chick stories are the same if he doesn’t leave her for you.

I know, but I don’t really want to be the chosen one.

He’s in charge. You depend on his marital schedule. And, us women, we are loyal. Sex makes us loyal.

I’ll just do it once and I’ll leave it there . . .

I was obviously wrong and I knew it. In the end, whatever you are holding on to is invalid; it’s like taking someone to court and not having concrete paperwork to prove that they were supposed to pay you. You know it, they know it – but, is that enough?

Before I went in with him, I was working so hard on myself, confidence, self-love, and the whole lot. All that witty bullshit. I was very harsh about allowing myself to occupy such a trivial space in a man’s life, such a compromising and apologetic position, when I know I am no basic bitch. Look, I don’t want to give out digits here, but it’s a 9.99 situation up in here!

But, “In this Gentleman’s Club, sometimes you have to remember that no matter what a glorious 9.99 you are, Whiskey is much much older and wiser than you; it’s aged in wooden casks, brewed with the finest…”

“…Okay, whatever. I’ll just go get my night going elsewhere.” I told the barman, who I thought was acting all smart in a Scotland-looking-like pub.

After I had settled inside my warm blankets snuggling with my hot water bottle, looking on the roof in the dark for answers about what went wrong, I knew I had myself to blame. I always knew I’d have only myself to take home. I have myself to wait with, and then finally conclude; “There won’t be anymore of his calls coming through.” I should have taken better care of me.

The next morning, I had myself to convince to get out of bed, take the trash out, go for a walk to unwind. I had myself to be angry at about how he used to reciprocate emotionally, and how his heart is now such a violent precinct I no longer feel welcome in. I constantly need to watch my back. I don’t even think our memories are safe with him anymore. They are probably carelessly scattered, unwatched.

My friends called to ask how it’s all going. How’s your heart, babe? At some point, ’ll have to tell them;

“Once again, someone who knew I wasn’t a good swimmer carried me to the deep end of an ocean. I blinked. He was gone. Now I have to find my way back to the shore . . .”

And then

“I’m gon’ be alright.”

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