He Who Shall Not Be Named

Every woman has one. A memory. A name. A place in time. A man. THE man. The dude that helped you feel. The mothereffer that screwed it all up for you.

A man whose name must not be said in the company of good people for fear that they will look at you differently. They will think you weaker, pathetic and sad.

“What was so special about him?”

“Are you crying?!?”

“How long has it been?”

“And he screwed you over how?”

“Girl, get over it.”

You tell them the story (without, of course, mentioning his name) and inevitably they will ask, “What the hell did you see in him?

It’s impossible to explain. So you continue calling him HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED because you know they’re right and you might just break down if you say his name.

But secretly you wonder where he is and what his life is like.  You are fine now but the memories of the two of you still irk you, like nails on a chalkboard.  Mostly because they are good and bad and you wish they were all bad so that you could hate him. Even just a little bit.

One day you are home alone and doing laundry. The TV is on and you hear his voice. You refuse to look. You know it’s him. But you give in and you catch a glimpse and he looks good. He’s gotten himself new glasses and a nice fancy suit and his voice is just a silky smooth as you remember and its sound ripples through your body like an earthquake. You refuse to google him because you know it will only serve to create more tremors.

You stare at the TV even after his image has left the screen. The blue glow of the television remind you of his piercing blue eyes. The eyes you once thought were kind.

You shouldn’t have gotten a bloody TV!

The laundry must get done today, your life will must go on and the memories will continue to fade.

It’s better that way. You just wish he didn’t look so damned good!

But someday you’ll write a play about it and he won’t look so good in it!

Ah, the power of the pen.

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