I was nineteen years old when you came home from that year long naval trip, bursting through the door and telling me how so desperately some of those Australian girls wanted you all to bring them back home to the good ole USA. What you didn't notice was that I was on the phone with him, and quickly hung up as soon as I heard your voice in the living room.
At the time, I was still icy cold inside from the news that you had recently broken to me-all those hookers in Japan and the United Arab Emirates...the girls you met in Australia...and a few of those young blonds that you were stuck on the ship with. You have no idea how much I didn't want to be at your welcome home party that evening, but I obligatorily attended with you.
The moment that I saw him that evening, I knew that somehow the shit was going to hit the fan. I just didn't know that it was also going to hit me smack in the face.
The only thing that I remember next is you standing in front of me asking, "So, who is better in bed? Me or him?"
All I can remember is not being able to respond in front of so many people, watching and waiting for my response. Laughing. Egging you on. I haven't been able to erase the image of your hand flying up to my face and hitting me with with an open palm. I remember feeling confused when no one did anything to stop your hand from flying up and hitting me again. No one, but him.
I was so bewildered by the two slaps that I had an instant flashback of the night of our graduation. Me and you, in front of your house with Enrique. For no reason, you suddenly slapped me and I remember turning around in rage and throwing you against the screen door. I kicked you, punched you and effectively kicked your fucking ass until Enrique pulled me off of you.
So it was so very bizarre that I suddenly snapped back into the present at the party and punched you in the nose. And then him, picking me up and carrying me out of there.
Sitting in the car, I just knew that nothing about me would ever be the same. I had smelled your blood.
The memory of "I'm glad he's dead. Now I can have you and Enriques' attention" has rattled around in my head every time that I have thought about you over the years. I've hated you not so much for what you said, but for all of those years of everything that you did.
I've hated you. Until you called the other day. Calling me to settle a wrong, as you claimed.
I'll admit that I lied to you and I really read all of those letters that came stamped with a California prison stamp. I read every single letter that you have ever sent. And I've hated you.
But the moment that you sat in front of me and said, "In prison I contracted HIV. I want to tell you what an asshole I was to you, and I wish that I could do anything to show you that I am really sorry", all that I could feel was compassion for you. And a sense of loss.
It's a funny feeling not to hate you anymore.
The Sugar of Black Cool
5 hours ago