SNAPPED
It was hard, but I did it. I sent flowers along with a heartfelt letter of apology to my ex-boyfriend’s parents, asking their forgiveness. Five months ago they cast me out. It’s time we reconcile. I’m a legitimate part of their family now, something that wasn’t mentioned in the letter because my ex should be the first to know. I bought him flowers too, white roses, a symbol of hope and new beginnings. I left them on the passenger seat in my car when I stopped at a café across from his condo to use the bathroom for the third time this hour. It must be my nerves. I wanted to drop by and talk face to face, but maybe the element of surprise is too much for me. It could also be our baby pressing my bladder since it’s the end of my second trimester. Hopefully, my ex and I can forgive each other and announce the news together. First, I have to tell him.
With a latte in one hand and my phone in the other, I hip check the door and step onto the sidewalk into a warm March breeze. Funny how quickly things change. It was cool and gray when I left home. Now, the noon sun has burst through the clouds and a chrome, stretch Hummer has parked in front of my ex’s condo, in the same spot police pulled up after I surprised him five months ago. When he answered the door, I tackled him hurling fists and expletives as his teenage daughter watched in shock. I’d snapped! For that I was led off the premises by cops, though not in cuffs. He was guilty of cheating and marking me with his lover’s STD, a detail not mentioned in his statement.
Beside the Hummer, a suited chauffeur stands poised as passersby point and stare. Some residents watch from their balconies. We’re all curious to see who’ll get in or out of the limo. Moments later, a handsome dark-skinned man in a pewter grey, three-piece suit strolls out the building and hands something to the chauffeur. Damn. There’s nothing sexier than a man in a well-tailored . . . it’s Him, my ex! I slip back into the café and watch from inside while the chauffeur opens a passenger door. Long, honey legs step out in pale heels. My ex offers a hand to the woman with the legs as she emerges from their chrome chariot. Is she the one who came between us? She gazes over her shoulder, showing off the back of her blush dress with fitted bodice and puffy, above-the-knee skirt. Who knew herpes simplex-2 came in such a pretty package? Chauffeur snaps a picture. My ex slides his hands around his woman’s hips. She leans her ear toward his lips and laughs, tipping her face to the sun as he appears to whisper. Snap! Chauffeur captures the moment. My ex turns his woman around to face him. They kiss. Snap! Chauffeur records the memory while random bystanders clap, cheer, and whistle, applauding her victory.
Another woman exits the other side of the limo. She runs to the happy couple, arriving just in time to photo bomb their picture. Then He poses between the ladies, holding their waists and smiling for the camera. The women kiss his cheeks. Snap! I recognize the younger woman. It’s his daughter! She’s so mature-looking in that strapless version of the other woman’s dress. Wait. Did they just get married? Snap! They’re taking selfies. Snap! And rearranging positions. Snap! Snap! Their images sear my eyes like blinding paparazzi flashes. The longer I stare the more it stings. I look away, desperate for the show to end. When it’s finally over, I rush to my car and speed away.
The flowers tumble to the floor. Maybe I’ll let them wilt there.