When he walks in I’m going to act like I don’t even see him. No, I’ll make myself cry and periodically shoot him forlorn glances. He’ll see my tears and feel so guilty for what he did that he’ll stop me after the service and beg for my forgiveness. Actually, he’ll ask for my forgiveness and beg for me to take him back. I won’t take him back, but I will make out with him until his fiancé walks in on us, and throws the engagement ring back at him in a fit of rage. I was in deep thought re-playing my thirty-seventh hypothetical meeting with Trevor, my "Whaddya mean you didn't know I already had a girlfriend" ex-boyfriend who was supposed to be attending this funeral service along with his fiancé, Brandie.
This was the final stage in my post-relationship closure process. I’d already completed the steps where I left angry messages on his phone, stalked him at the supermarket and threatened to kill his kitten. I could finally get over him if I could just see the hussy for whom I was dumped and make him feel like a loser by looking insanely hotter than her.
The service was already about ten minutes late and there was still no sign of him. I’d even strategically attached myself to a group of mourners sitting near the entrance, so that I could keep an eye on who was entering and exiting the venue. It also detracted from fact that I was there solo. Wouldn’t want to look lonely and dateless in front of the happy couple. In between reading the obituary (Mr. Reed was a Mud Lick, Kentucky City Councilman) and passing Kleenex to the broken up woman next to me (definitely Mr. Reed’s mistress), I kept stealing glances to see if Trevor was anywhere to be found.
Fast growing impatient and tired of fake-consoling the “mistress,” I left for the bathroom to touch up my makeup one last time. What if Trevor walked in and my eyebrows had melted off?
“Eat your heart out, Trev,” I said as I strutted in front of the bathroom’s full-length mirror in a black stretch jersey tunic that fell flawlessly over my super-tight, liquid leggings, which threatened to burst open if I so much as looked at a Pepperidge Farm Goldfish. My high-heeled booties were definitely going to give me a bad case of bunions or scoliosis, but they were fierce. And the ensemble was topped off with a cute leather bomber and the accessory-du-jour, a yellow chain purse. My imaginary techno catwalk music was interrupted when a pretty young lady suddenly entered. I noticed, as she sashayed into the room, that she too, wore an outfit that was inappropriately tight for the occasion. Actually she was only wearing a simple black dress, but she had one of those curvy bodies where everything looked obscene on her.
I flashed her a phony smile and prepared to exit, when I heard the words, “Nice bag.” My ears and attitude immediately perked up at the compliment and I genuinely thanked her. I mean, if Trevor was going to be a no-show, then at least someone would’ve appreciated the effort I put in to this get-up. We immediately vibed on the catty girl equalizer- fashion- when she then showed me her own yellow bag which, being an authentic expensive label, put my Forever 21 knock-off to shame. But not one to be easily disgraced or outdone, I explained to her that I didn’t want to waste my money on flashy, frivolous things like bags, clothes and butt injections (which I’m sure she had) because I was saving up for my vacation to Boca Chica in a few weeks.
“I totally understand, “ she agreed, “which is why I’m lucky I got this bag for so cheap in Rome,” she added while caressing the supple leather on her fine Italian carryall. “My fiancé and I just got back,” she beamed.
I didn’t have time to play this game with her, mainly because I could already tell that she’d win, and I had other people to impress- Trevor. She went on about Rome as she hopped into the bathroom stall. Somewhere between the Panthenon and the Trevi Fountain, I interjected and told her I’d catch up with her after the service. She asked me to wait so that we could sit together. Was she serious? I was so not looking to make friends at this event and if Trevor saw the both of us together she might steal my shine with her “Dark and Lovely” tresses and video ho derriere.
I reluctantly waited for her to finish pissing Vueve Cliquot, or whatever comes out of a bourgeoise bitch's urethra, while frantically plotting a way to ditch her outside. After washing her hands, she politely smiled, extended a French-manicured palm out to me and said, “By the way, I’m Brandie.