Toxic Vortex

Dear Butch,

I overheard your conversation today while we were both in a public establishment.  It was actually hard not to hear it.  I was sitting on the opposite end of the bar from you, trying to unwind with a book and a glass of white wine.  My heels were barely dangling from my feet, a sure sign of me melting into my environment.  It was late and I was enjoying the quiet calm of the dark wood bar.

And then, you walked in on your cell phone.  I acknowledge d your presence at first, because I would be a failure to myself if I hadn’t.  You were the business type, suit and tie.  Handsome, with your conservative sleeves rolled up to expose your tattoos.  I returned to my book, not feeling on my game enough to flirt.  Well, more like I attempted to return to my book.  Your loud and dramatic comments filled my serenity with chaos.

“Christ on a cracker!  When he ever learn!”

“I told you, I told you not to take to him again!”

“And then I said, ‘Fucking deal with it!’.  But will he listen to me, no!”

“Your screwed!”

‘You know I am right!”

It felt like my ears were being attacked by angry hornets.  My little bubble of happiness was violently popped.  I tried to make eyes at you, letting you know my displeasure with your attitude, word choice, and tone but you were so wrapped up in your teenage bullshit (as a 30something-year-old adult) that you ignored me.  You so enjoyed being the center of attention, both on the phone and in the bar.  Feeding on your unwanted and probably invalidated toxic vortex of crap, thinking you were appearing to be strong but instead looking like a total douche bag.  

Let me tell you, I would be ashamed to be your lady.  Ashamed of your need to surround yourself and create drama.  Fucking embarrassed. 

Love,

Femme

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