Sometimes I wish I were a lesbian. Things would be so much easier. You wouldn’t have to worry if your man was sleeping with your best friend, or if he really loved you, or if that guy in your communications group asked you for your number because of study reasons, or because of other reasons. But then again, girls are the reason men behave in this way. We are the cause of this desire, I guess. Damn, isn’t it sad? I call men “men” even if they do something that should negate their maturity, but I consider women, “girls,” immature, naïve, stupid.

It’s cliché, but life sucks. It truly does. Was it me? Did I do something to cause this? Was I too fast? Do I believe him? Why the hell did he have to sleep with her? Why haven’t I walked away?

He says he doesn’t remember. He says he blacked out from drinking too much. Right, sure. But I thought he hated her. I thought she was a disgusting, petty bitch and that he couldn’t wait to move out when his lease was up; at least, that’s what he always told me. I should have known not to trust him with a girl roommate. But she used to have a boyfriend. Then he dumped her and she made the move to Justin, my Justin.

It’s been two weeks. I should have walked away and left him alone and crying, begging me to forgive him. But no, I’m still stringing him along, telling him, “I don’t know yet.” It was supposed to be easy. It should have been a clean break and a life lesson like in the movies or on TV. The women on those shows are so strong. They fall in love with the perfect guy and then find out he’s fucking the neighbor, and they cut it off clean, shed a few tears, and emerge a new, confidant, stronger woman. But those women aren’t real. It’s so much different when you’re actually in love and you imagined yourself with them for the rest of your life. You can’t just say goodbye, especially when they have an excuse, even if it is weak. He could never hold his liquor and he said he was feeling a little down because me and him had been arguing a little the past week. It was nothing out of the ordinary. I was about to get my period and I’m always real snappy when I’m about to rag. But I never thought it was enough to make him want to turn up a bottle of Vodka. He said he wanted to see what it was like, so he chugged it real fast. He says the next thing he knew Katie was crying to him about Robbie and about how much she missed him and couldn’t go on. He said he took another swig, passed her the bottle and closed his eyes.

The next thing he claims to remember is lying beside her, nauseous, lightheaded and naked. When he told me that maybe I should have taken that as some sort of sign. Though I don’t know what it would have meant. All I know is that’s exactly how I felt after we had sex the first time, except I also felt sore, but I was happy. It was my first time. I cried, for many reasons, but mainly because I was truly, completely in love with Justin in that moment. I can’t believe it’s all wasted.

Maybe in a few years it’ll all mean something. But as of now, I’m sitting in my Spanish class, not knowing a damn word my professor is saying and all I can do is wonder what the hell I’m supposed to do now.

“Angela…” Oh fucking God. They always know don’t they. Teachers have a third sense and know the precise moment when to call on you to make you feel and look like an ass. Sometimes I think they get pleasure out of making people miserable. My boyfriend should go to teaching school.

“Qué tipo de persona es tu hombre ideal?”

The entire, and I mean entire class turns around and stares at me in my little corner in the back row of perfectly aligned wooden desks. It’s deathly quiet in the room except for a blast from the air condition and a random cough.

“Uhhh…” I think fast and force an answer. “Uhh, No sée. Umm, un hombre muy simpático, y honesto, no mientras, y no bebe mucho alcohlico.”

“Interesante, Janet, y tu? Quién es tu hombre ideal?”

Thank God the attention is off me now. Soon class is over with and I take my time as I pack up my things. I see a couple hold hands as they exit the prison-like bland classroom with its high, small windows and white walls. I wonder if he’s ever cheated on her. I bet he has. Bastard. Why do guys do this! Women don’t have this need to cheat, at least I don’t think. I’ve never once thought about cheating on Justin. Well maybe I would if Hugh Grant lived beside me, but he doesn’t.

I walk to the bus stop and do the exact same thing I’ve done the past two weeks. I look down, flip open my cell phone and check my messages. I don’t want to make eye contact with anyone I might know in the Communications Department. I don’t want them to ask me to come to some party that weekend, oh and to bring Justin, too. And I don’t want them to ask me how my boyfriend’s doing or tell me that they saw him the other day and that he didn’t look too good. It is one thing that’s made me feel a little better about the whole situation: He has been miserable. Whether he did it on purpose or not, he feels sorry. I know that much. I know him, and I know when he’s being a drama queen and when he’s not. He genuinely is upset about this.

He should be.

I’ve got two voice mails. One’s from my sister, curious as to if me and Justin want to go out with her and her boyfriend, Steve, to see their friend’s band play at The Loft. If I tell her about Justin she’ll do the same thing my best friend, Meg, did. She’ll comfort me, tell me she’s there for me, and come over right away, whether I want her there or not. But then she’ll get angry. She won’t understand why I don’t leave him. She’ll say things like, “I can’t believe you’re not sure. He fucked someone else. Drop his sorry ass!” and “What’s his number, I think I should call him.” Or she’ll say, “I’m gonna kill that asshole.”

It’s nice to know my friend cares that much about me. But its like, she doesn’t even hear what I have to say. She doesn’t care that I’m still in love with him, or the fact that he was drunk and wasn’t in control. She thinks I can just flip a switch, forget him completely and be ok with everything. It doesn’t work like that. She just wants revenge because she’s never had a boyfriend. Meg never did like Justin. I mean, sure they got along ok, but I know secretly she was jealous. At least I think so. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.

The other message is from him. I listen to it and have the urge to cry. I wonder if he did the same things to her that he’d do to me, like when he kisses me really, really slowly and pulls away with a smile. I wonder if he touched her lower belly and rubbed it back and forth for a while before he moved his hand lower. He used to do that to me. One time he did it, and he said, “I can’t wait ‘til this is...” and he stopped. When I asked him to continue he just said he was getting too far ahead of himself and cut me off with his mouth so that I wouldn’t question it anymore. My mind went wild with what he meant by that and even though I shouldn’t say or think things I’m not 100% sure about, something tells me he was thinking about children.

Is twenty-one too early to be thinking about that?

He sounds absolutely broken on the phone. Usually during voice mails, he talks to me with a slightly arrogant tone, animatedly re-telling something that had happened to him at his job at Bargain Books that day or in one of his classes. But now he’s quiet, almost whispering, asking me to call him back if I want to, understanding if I don’t. He pauses, sighs, and his voice cracks when he says he’s so sorry. He sobers up quickly and saying in a normal, but flat tone, “I’d like to see you tonight. Call me back if you want. Bye…” He stops and then quickly adds, “I know it doesn’t change anything, but I love you Ange. I really, really do.”

It’s dark outside, that weird blueish tone that lingers over everything around dusk. The late November air bites into my eyes as I flip the phone closed and I blame the cold wind for my tears. But I know better. I sit at the wooden bench at the bus stop and wait for it to come and take me home. I’m supposed to work tonight. I work at a deli not far from campus. I’ve already called in sick. I don’t want to have to stand on my feet for five hours and then clean up all the shit people eat and smell like ham when I get home. I just can’t deal with anything tonight.

I hate waiting for buses, especially when all you want in the whole world is to be home, safe, under a fleece blanket, curled up on the couch and aimlessly flipping through TV channels. I watch as a young guy curses to himself across the street. He rolls his eyes and grabs the yellow slip underneath the wipers of his car, crunching it in his hand. I’ve never gotten a parking ticket or any traffic ticket in my life. I’m very cautious about driving. I’m cautious about a lot of things. I don’t make rash decisions and I hate spontaneity. Maybe this is all one sick joke from God. Maybe I was too rash with falling for Justin. He’s my first everything. Maybe this is God telling me I should have been more careful.

But dammit, I think waiting nineteen years to have a real, true boyfriend was careful enough. And it’s not like I just jumped into it. We were friends since freshman year, sitting beside each other and cutting up in English Comp. class. And then one night, two semesters’ later, things changed. It was supposed to be a small get together at his apartment. But Meg got caught up at work and Justin’s roommate ended up going to see his girlfriend an hour away. There were a few people there, but they left around ten to go to this huge frat party and a couple people he invited over just didn’t show up. Neither of us had had too much to drink, but enough to make us laugh a little too excessively at Jimmy Stewart’s unrealistic fall at the end of Rear Window. He kissed me that night, and even though I had been kissed before it felt like the first time. I know that’s extremely pathetic to say, but it’s the truth. It’s how I felt.

On the bus there’s a lady sitting on the second to last row on the left side. She always there when I get on the bus. She’s got gray hair, the kind that’s not pristine and perfectly white like a lot of older women’s. Her hair looks worn and wiry. The corners of her eyes crease into deep folds and her jaw moves underneath her saggy cheeks like she’s constantly chewing on something. She always wearing the same purple and aqua windbreaker and has a gray cane across her lap, sticking out into the aisle. She never moves her gaze from outside and I wonder what she’s doing on the bus. I wonder what she’s staring at. I usually don’t pay any mind to other people, but she gets to me. I always wonder where she’s going or where she’s been, but I never have the courage to ask her.

I’ve been living in the same apartment complex for about a year and a half now and I’ve been using the buses to get to campus for that same amount of time. When I first started using mass transportation, she’d be there in her same spot, but with an elderly man. They’d sit beside each other and mildly chat but for the most part were quiet. But since August he hasn’t been on the bus. It’s probably the most illogical but for some reason I have a feeling he cheated on her.

Is it cheating if he doesn’t love her? Is it cheating if he didn’t do it consciously?

Did he do it consciously?

I think about what’s keeping me from telling him I never want to see him again and it’s really easy to say because I love him. But it’s so much more than that. With him, I’ve finally become comfortable in my own skin and I’m absolutely horrified at the idea of being alone again. Isn’t that pathetic? I’d rather live with a man who fucks me over than be alone for the rest of my life. Are women like this everywhere? Sometimes I wonder if it’s that stupid southern chivalric stereotype where the girls supposed to get married young and pop out some kids, cook dinner and do the laundry and take care of the house and the family, while the man busts through the door at 5:30, kisses her sweetly and says “Honey, I’m home.” He takes care of the girl. Maybe it’s not southern. Maybe I’m just a product of my parents who are a product of the fifties. You know, I almost wish I had never even kissed him that damned night. I was doing ok, alone, but fairly happy. I was independent and naïve as hell, but it was ok. I wasn’t tainted. But now that I’ve been used I don’t know what else to do. I’ve gotten a taste of what it’s like to have someone love me, please me, care for me. I’ve seen that retro but possible future life. And as sick as it is, I want that. I want to be taken care of and I want to pop out a few kids.

He’d be good for me, too. He would take care of me, I know it. But he’d also push me to be my own person. Sometimes I have chronic laziness, but he always tries to inspire me to do my work. He’s the one that got me all the information on grad schools and job opportunities. I graduate in the spring and he’s the one that’s promised to help me fill out my applications and work on my resume. He’s the one that said, “We’ll figure it out” when I complained about not having enough money for grad school.

I get off at my stop and the elderly lady turns and smiles a toothless smile at me. It’s random, unexpected and creeps me out a little bit. Does that mean something? Maybe she spends all her time on the bus escaping her real life. Maybe those crevices around her eyes are from worrying too much about her husband and whether or not he was fucking his secretary. I bet he was. I bet they all do, or at least they want to.

I wish I could blame it on some gene or some animalistic instinct, but that wouldn’t make me feel any better. That’d just make me accept it. Do I accept the fact that he slept with someone else, someone he claimed to hate? Does it make it ok that he was drunk? Do I forget everything we went through and experienced? I wonder if everything’s tainted now and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to forget it, or will every single time I think about something we did together, images of him above her, breathing heavy, looking down, whispering how good it feels drill themselves into my brain.

As I walk across the parking lot, I look up from my shoes and in the moment everything breaks down. My shoulders slump and I take in a deep breath. I feel it bubble up in my throat, my stomach convulses and I squeeze my eyes shut. They flow like rain and tickle my face. I try to wipe the tears away, but they come too fast. Of course, he’s there. Of course, he’s standing there against his filthy red Blazer, hands in his pocket, watching me walk towards him.

How can one mistake completely take me over? How am I going to be able to forgive him? But how am I going to be able to live without him?

I know, in five years I’ll look back on this, wiser, and think about what a “growing experience” it was. I’ll think about how it was bad for a while, but I moved on and got over it, got over him.

I can’t get over him.

I can feel him near me and when I look up he’s standing there absolutely lost, completely terrified about what he’s done to me. Is that the truth? Or are my eyes and heart tricking me so I believe that he’s terrified?

I need to walk away from and not look back.

“Ange…” I stare him, hating how now that I’m crying, I can’t breathe out of my nose. “Please don’t cry.”

“What else am I supposed to do Justin?”

“I…I don’t…” His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and he looks down at the black pavement for a moment. “I got my results back today and everything’s fine. I’m clean.”

I made him go get tested for STD’s. Even though Katie claimed she had only slept with one other person I wasn’t going to take that risk. Yeah, I talked to her myself a few days after it all happened. When I talked to her I sat on the floor of my bathroom in front of the toilet, waiting for her to tell me that he wanted it, and that he knew what he was doing. I waited for her to give me a detailed picture of what it looked like and felt like and, and sounded like. But I didn’t get a detailed picture. Instead, I was shocked when she told me what he was, in fact, really drunk, and that she was, too. She said that he seemed not to know what was going on. She apologized, assured me she was on birth control so that wasn’t an issue, and explained how she wasn’t thinking. She started to cry over the phone and told me that she never meant to hurt anyone.

“He really loves you Angela,” she had said. “You gotta believe that.”

That’s when I threw up.

I clear my throat, trying not to have that memory make me puke up the pizza I nibbled on for lunch. I don’t look him in the eyes when I say, “That’s good.”

My eyes can’t stay away for long and I get a quick glance. He’s biting his bottom lip, a nervous habit that I’ve desperately tried to rid him of. Sometimes his lips get so chapped and they scratch mine when he kisses me. I shake my head. I can’t afford to think like that.

“Yeah…” He trails off for a moment. “I was wondering if you wanted to hang out tonight.”

I wipe under my eyes and then continue to rub my face and cheeks and then up to my forehead where a headache is starting to form. He knows better than to ask me that.

I sigh out his name, “Justin…”

He cuts me off with an urgent tone. “Angela, just hear me out, ok? I don’t expect anything. I just, you think maybe we could just sit around and watch TV? Or, I mean, I can sit in the other room and you can do whatever. I just…” I look up at him and he looks down at the pavement again. He sucks in a shaky breath and cuts his blue eyes to mine. Those eyes used to tease me and make me want him. Now they just hurt to look at. “I don’t wanna be by myself right now,” he forces out with an unsteady voice.

I gulp and stare at him. I scream at myself to walk away. I should just walk past him to my apartment, lock the door behind me, and go take a shower, washing off every memory of us he ruined when he decided to fuck her.

I mean really, what was I thinking when I told him “I didn’t know yet.” How will I be able to live with myself knowing he had sex with someone else? Every time he’d make love to me I’d think about it. I’d think about his hands on someone else and his lips on someone else and him inside of someone else. I’d be obsessed with it and it’d eat me from the inside out.

I just gotta walk away from him.

He’s staring at me.

Walk away, Angela.

“Please…” He whispers and my shoulders slump.

I walk past him and towards my apartment. I don’t look back and I keep my eyes in front of me. I swing my book bag around and fish for my keys in the front pouch. The keys jingle in my hand and I fumble with them until I get the right one and slide it into the keyhole. I open the door, flip on the lights and step inside.

But my hand holds the door open and when I look over my shoulder he’s right there, right behind me, like always. I should have walked away from him when I had the chance. I should have left him two weeks ago when he first told me. And I shouldn’t have let him inside just now, but then again, he shouldn’t have fucked his roommate.

I’m too far in it now, and it’s way too late to walk away.