The Bitter Bitch

So a million years ago you were in love with me and now you’re engaged to her, the girl after me, who looks nothing like me because I was never your type anyway. She is long and lean and her dark hair swishes when she turns. She is going to be your wife.

A million years ago you watched me from across the room and hoped I’d make you mine. You asked me questions. Do you like this book. Did you see this movie. Did you hear this song. Will you call me later.
Do you love me.

Yes.

So I realize I am not a simple girl. A swishy hair girl. A girl with all the convenient answers, the cozy lies. I realize I challenge and provoke. I realize my soft skimpy boyshorts are accessorized with a sharp tongue. Didn’t keep you from tearing them off.

She probably doesn’t drag you to the theater, the zoo, the park, the obscure bookstore. Probably just the mall. An occasional Costco run. Artless, easy, safe. Have fun with a long life of swishy hair.
Swishy swishy swishy.

If I may now speak honestly, I will admit, I am the bitter bitch. At least I own it. Now the only thing you’ll own is the key to a charmingly predictable life. You needed someone like me.
You cut me lose and now I’m out. But, you should know, I’m out looking for someone like you. Because someday I will be someone’s wife and I want them to look at me the way you looked at me. Long before I scared you and you ran to her with her safe ways and swishy bangs.

A million years from now, I’ll re-read this ode to the bitter bitch and smile. It will seem funny to mock someone I’ve never met. Really, Abbey, just knock someone for swishy hair. Bit childish. I will nod at this realization and then catch my face in the mirror on the way out the door to do something unpredictably fabulous.

I’ll shake my wild mane and add a little more red lipstick.
There. That’s better.