Have a Nice Life

"Have a nice life," I tapped out and pressed SEND.  I did not think it to death the way I usually would.  I knew my instinct was sound.

The next morning: Furious texts.  You’re judgmental.  You jump to conclusions.  You should ask what happened if you don’t want to have hurt feelings.

As if it were me, who didn’t show up the night before.

I almost laugh, and I think, "how true that would be," in another set of circumstances.  Very.  But not now, not this time.  I think about the things I could have judged: The flimsy hinge you broke your marriage over.  Flimsy.  How you whine about the decision you made.  Like another I know.  Didn’t though.  That’s not the kind of relationship we have.

Something snaps.  I lose my "no strings" capacity.  I tell this fucker off. 

… excuses …

I tell him off some more.  I don’t care that I sound like the bratty girlfriend.  I’ve had it with being the nice, understanding girl.  She’s been played out this year.

I get the last word.  It doesn’t really feel that great.   

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