On the Outs

You’re being fucked over and not just once. Oxygen escaping you, the events are punctuated without order as your brain comprehends what’s plain to see. You’d assumed you were the aggressor as you tiptoed home in the twilight with your girls. As stealthy as your drunken limbs could, you sneaked your head in his door, and not your boyfriend’s. If your guy was going leave you all day to go sailing, you’d make your own fun.

You’d been frozen at the unexpected sounds of pleasure. Disappointment, anger, guilt, they all washed over you on the walk down the hall to your boyfriend’s room. You’d changed clothes while jealously ruminating on a surely-buxom, blond bitch in his bed, before crawling under the covers to find yours cold, empty.

An alcohol-encumbered brain could not keep panic from spasming through you. Door open, his wide-eyes, their bare skin, it was all a blur until your focus returned to land on a face you knew you’d find—the beautiful, soul-searing pout of his lips that you’d shared for the last time.

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