Love is never saying you’re sorry. Isn’t that the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard?

It was a line in that novel she kept reading. Love is never saying you’re sorry. Something like that. Isn’t that the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard? And nasty. If I love someone, when I love someone, I say sorry all the time. Every minute, every hour, every second. Everyone would, wouldn’t they? Any sane person would.

But she wasn’t sane. Actually, that’s an understatement. She was really, totally, completely insane. That’s why I fell for her, didn’t I? Fine, so she was a looker too. Magnetic. Sapphire green eyes. Lashes long enough to curl around the circumference of the planet. When I saw her for the first time on the dance floor at The Nostradamus, I couldn’t resist the spell.

But I wasn’t the one who made the move, okay? She did. She was the one who came over. She ordered the tequila shots. Leaned across the counter with a mischievous glance that would leave any man out of breath. Such a tease. The bouncing strobe lights burnt her auburn hair. She lit up the damn bar, not me. The shimmering black dress crept up her thighs, not mine. She was the one who wrapped her legs around me in the parking lot. She whispered in my ear. Take me home. She did all of it.

It wasn’t me. It was her. She’s the reason I am so messed up. Not even saying sorry. Stupidest thing I ever heard.

What was I supposed to do? You tell me. Is that any way to treat your boyfriend? We had been together two years. Two whole, happy years. Two perfect, wonderful years. I’m not talking about just the sex. We connected. Really connected. I wasn’t jealous when other men ogled at her. She could be wearing an baggy trench coat and they’d still follow her. But I wasn’t jealous. Drooling dogs need their booty. Hell, what was under that coat was well worth worshiping. But two years. 730 days. No, one of them was a leap year. 731 days. That should stand for something, shouldn’t it? I was the perfect boyfriend. Perfect. A ring was the next obvious step.

The window displays at Tiffany’s had a few diamonds laid out. We walked past them every other day and any sane woman would have shown some interest. But she always just marched straight on. Heels clicking. Leaving behind a trail of Chanel and enchanted men. She enjoyed teasing them. Not that I was jealous but it’s got to stop sometime, right? I had been patient but I wanted her for my own. All of her. She was faithful, I have no doubt about that. Why not seal the deal then? Even after two years, marriage was the last thing on her mind. It was even behind the last thing on her mind. Told you she was insane.

Whenever I broached the subject, she brought up her parents. Divorced when she was five. So? Everyone’s parents get divorced these days. If I went to the park and asked all those married women walking their chihuahuas, pretty sure half of them would say their parents were divorced. That’s just the way life rolls.

But she said weddings kill relationships. Sex dies after marriage. Another line in another one of her books. She even marked it out for me. Page 65 or whatever. If you’re taking advice from fiction writers, your brain matter has turned into toothpaste. They are fiction writers. Fiction. Made up shit. Not real. I should never have had that tequila shot.

That’s what I told her that night. The tequila was a mistake. She went ballistic. Threw that book at me and I threw it out of the window. Good riddance. I had had it up till here and we had a mighty argument. Storms have to rain sometime, right? She said some nasty things. Really bad. I’m a gentleman, I can’t tell you, okay? I controlled myself. But really nasty. She said she couldn’t stand to see my face. I left even though it was my apartment. Told you I’m a gentleman.

It was raining by the time I left the elevator. I was drenched in a second. Nothing in the world is worse than soaked underwear. Okay, unless she’s wearing it. But you know what I mean. I couldn’t go back for an umbrella, could I? That book was still on the pavement and I kicked it across the street. Almost hit a Mercedes but I didn’t care. The rainwater had reached my bones. I could feel the calcium dissolving, feel them turning into mush. I looked up at the window and saw her shadow behind the drapes. She leaned out and apologized. Hah, you think? In your dreams. She shut the lights and left me in the rain.

Not having to say sorry. Stupidest bloody definition ever. You know what love is? Love is not having to stand alone in the rain. Write that in a damn book.

I did give her another chance. Two years don’t get washed away in one storm. I gave her a call from The Nostradamus. I had half a bottle of whiskey in me already and alcohol really calms me down. Will she apologize, I asked her. She laughed. Every time we had an argument, it was the same deal. Her anger lurked around for days. The sex after was out of this world but it’s not all about the sex, is it? I had had enough. Normal people move on. All I heard on the phone was her mocking laughter. Was she sorry, I asked again. You know what she said, don’t you? You eff’ing know what she said!

What would you do? I know what I did. Emptied the whiskey bottle. Was about to move on to vodka when a girl swaying on the dance floor caught my eye. Yep, I know what I did. I never make the first move though. Waited for her to walk over. She ordered two shots of tequila. Damn right. Raised an exquisitely manicured eyebrow. Sapphire eyes. Her lips curved. Teasing. Perfect. I shouldn’t have had the shot but I did. Auburn hair. It’s not my fault. Whiskey and anger don’t mix well. Add tequila to that and it’s an explosion. But it’s not my fault. The black dress crept up her thighs, not mine. She was the one who wrapped her legs around me in the parking lot. A whisper in my ear.

Take me home.

I write mostly poetry, and some fiction. You may find an essay in my feed once in a while. Connect at http://rmisra.com or me@rmisra.com

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