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Sometimes, when I least expect it, an overwhelming feeling of loneliness smacks me in the chest. Seems like it is always there, just below the surface, ready to spring up like an enemy submarine.
I sprawled on the bed as the tears escaped my eyes, weeping for a life that didn’t include me. My tears stopped when I fell into an exhausted sleep, only to dream of an embellished manifestation of my wedding day.
Matthew hadn’t kissed Pamela in front of our friends and family like I had dreamt this morning. He also didn’t let me drown while he and Pam paddled away in a boat like I dreamt last year.
No, our breakup was way less dramatic than that. He let me know by text.
Matthew: I can’t do this.
Me: What? You can’t fasten your bowtie? LOL
Matthew: I can’t marry you, Genesis. I’m in love with someone else.
Me: So not funny, Matt
Matthew: I’ll have my stuff out of the apartment by the end of the week.
Two weeks after he’d left me at the altar, Matt took the refund he received from our honeymoon and used it to fly Pam and himself to Vegas— where they tied the knot.
And he’s never apologized for forcing me to deal with the aftermath. My blood boils, thick and hot when I think of all the countless “what happened” questions I had to suffer through. Not to mention his mother’s barely concealed relief masked in words of regret...
That wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was looking my parents in the eye and telling them I was sorry.
At great expense, Mom and Dad had come over from New Zealand, where they worked on a sheep farm. They’d always wanted to see the world, and after I graduated from college, an offer for work—mom as a cook and dad as a farm hand—came through along with one-way plane tickets and a promise of financial help with their visas.
With a little prodding from me, they accepted.
Unlike Matthew’s rich folks, Mom and Dad had contributed most of their savings to the wedding.
I would have paid for them to come over and my portion of the wedding, but student loans owned me back then.
Even though I’ve paid them back (at my insistence and not theirs) the sheer waste of money—their money—killed me.
Mom looked damn fantastic in her lavender and white dress—my wedding colors. Dad, in his tux and lavender bow tie, had given me the proudest grin. He was so darn eager to walk me down the aisle...
Damn it! I’m jumping into that dark hole again.
Finding someone to fulfill my needs would punch my ticket. I need a night with a man who stands solid in his convictions. A man with strength. Power. Confidence.
But that type of someone is...uniqueand not so easy to come by in a city where I don’t know anyone. With my luck, I’d snag a married man, a weirdo, or a fellow conference attendee.
No. I’d better not attempt it. Instead, I’ll drink to my defunct wedding a time or four and let the liquor put me to sleep.
Less than an hour later, I’m darting through the rain to slither into the back seat of a cab.
“Wareto, miss?“ The driver asks, pressing the buttons to start the meter ticking.
“A place with good drinks. A place where I can get some peace and quiet.”
“If cost don’t bother you none,” the driver says dubiously, taking in my outfit of jeans and maroon college t-shirt. “I’d recommend The Regina Hotel. My cousin... he a room attendantdere. He say the drinks ain’t watered down and folks be minding their own.”
STS gives me a good per diem, so costisn’tan issue. Besides, with my new promotion as manager of the Quality Assurance Department, I can afford a night out from time to time, though I don’t like to dip into my emergency stash very often.
“The Regina it is, then.”
I stretch the seatbelt from its holder and click it into place as the driver pulls away from the curb. The rain beating a steady rhythm on the roof of the taxi almost drowns out the soft-rock playing on his radio. Outside, androgynous souls, their faces obscured by hoods or umbrellas, traverse the cracked sidewalks. I watch them as I settle into the ride.
Sooner than expected, the taxi stops. I pay the driver, and with a grimace at the dark sky, I hop out. Despite my best efforts to weave and bob in between the raindrops, I get wet from head to toe. With my sneakers squeaking and slipping, I tread carefully on the marble tile as I make my way towards the soft jazz, dim lighting, and the bottle of scotch that has my name on it.
