Repeat delivery
I guess, upon reflection, it means I am a slut. I don’t really fight the moniker, because like they say, if it quacks like a duck and tastes like a duck, or something like that. I have forgotten more partners than the average 28 year-old female has had. In conversation with a voice in my head I remembered the married man. He was rife with dancey feet that were not alway on my couch. He was a piano player in a itty bitty blues bar in London’s West End. His name was so typical that I rolled my eyes. Paul or Daniel or some other Biblically approved name. Smith. Jones. Whatever, the point is that I was sitting there just doing time till I came to the bottom of a double G and T with a twist of lime.
The introduction was what it was and all I can say for sure is that he came on to me. A ride at the end of the night wherein I rode him, just a little, after all, he and I had just met. A meeting later led to not much more than what was before and that wasn’t much at all. This was in my playing the field days and I was well suited to playing the field. I don’t even remember the in between, but I remember the end, and the end is always so much more interesting than everything else.
I emailed something mundane line to him and said something about seeing him at his next show. As I settled into my stool and my Gin he came up behind me and whispered in my ear: “Be careful of what you write in emails, my wife reads those.”
Yeah, his wife. Having been single long enough to know things, of course I did a ring check and he was free and clear. The burden of telling me that he was involved/married was on him. The burden of walking away from him was on me. I have never been really good at doing what I wassuppose to. I would like to say that I walked out of that bar that night and never looked back. I would like to say that I didn’t wait for the end of the night and then accept a ride to a ride. I would like to say that I supported my sisters and sent a dog home alone. Most of all I would like to say that I felt remorseful at being the other woman.
Too bad this isn’t the blog of some nice girl.