to the other woman
on becoming one without consent
Danielle had porcelain skin, twinkling eyes that always smiled. Naturally thin with long Irish-Italian limbs and a Brooklyn accent crammed into this angelic, eyeliner-free face. Looked like Björk in a faded Bowie tee, for Christ’s sake. Effortlessly fucking cool. Who could compete with that?
I didn’t think I’d have to.
She was his best friend. At least that’s what he claimed. I bet that’s still how he’d tell it.
When he’d pack his bags for Stonybrook and disappear on the weekends to see her, I didn’t ask a whole lot of questions. After all, I had plenty of male friends I wasn’t romantic with. After all, we weren’t exclusive. A year of sleeping in the same bed didn’t mean I was the only one, he’d be quick to remind me when I asked him.
Hell, I liked Danielle. She was a no-frills kinda girl, a good time, cheered loudly for the home team, pleasant like the warm summer rain. Not like me. I didn’t have no damn home, refugee kids didn’t get anyone to root for. Girls like me, born under a bad sign, well, we’re more like a hurricane. If hurricanes came in 98lb bodies with unkempt hair, platform boots and two day old mascara. A storm always brewing inside, a cold calm right before. I was beginning to see why they named them after people.
She bought me a drink that Friday night, laughed at all of my jokes. Irish car bomb for the lass, vodka on the rocks for the gangsters daughter. Aerosmith’s “Cryin” was my karaoke song of choice and she was stunned, clapping up a fucking storm. “Your Steven Tyler impression is spot on! I could feel the hurt.” I’m glad, I guess. I wasn’t performing.
When he told me I had nothing to worry about, I was half inclined to believe him. That morning as he went on to list 13 reasons why it ain’t me babe, I picked up the stained dress and remnants of my ego from his bedroom floor. Nodded at him and Johnny Cash on the wall when he grinned, “same time tomorrow, yeah?” Yeah.
Squinting my hungover eyes to see the little heart drawn next to a big D on that damn poster, right there next to Johnny’s guitar. That’s funny, I thought. I had gotten him the same one. The line at the bottom read, “To my man in black. Happy anniversary.”
The other woman I was so worried about? Well, turns out. The other woman was me.
Lots of people have implied over the past few months that I was to blame for not noticing I was the other woman. Thank you for showing me I’m not the only one
"Cheered loudly for the home team", just...fantastic. Thank you for sharing your gift of devastating turns of phrase. You get us all in the room.
I also take it as another midlife, my-brain's-getting-old moment how long it took me to realize that was Alishia Silverstone in that picture. That smirk should be trademarked as late GenX perfection.