The Best Beloved

My BFF, Sharon, is mad about Jack dumping me for an obese, post-menopausal version of his granny. Jeez, isn’t it disgusting for a twenty-something hunk presumably with brains to match his looks to oil the joints of a crone? The daemon of lucre has made him greedy and crazy.

I miss him so. Sharon says that no man in his right mind would leave me.

“I don’t want him back.”  I retort. That’s a lie. I miss him like a drug, and if he doesn’t come back I think I’d lose it.

Well, he left on his own accord. I am an obsessed, possessive, overprotective, nagging, over demanding bitch. His words, the unedited version, not mine.

‘Sad mistake’ was the epitaph he put on the gravestone of what used to be us. Everything after that day tells me that the goodbye had no string of hope for him coming back. I wish he were the Terminator.

I am now missing him while I know he’s in another woman’s arms, holding the granny’s face in his hands, kissing lips that have been tasted, I bet, by my great grandpa. I wonder what he sees in those eyes that have seen more than the world itself, or how he feels crawling under the bridge that has been washed by several El Niños and Bundalangi floods.

So, ‘I don’t want him back’ is what I have decided. I want someone who’d belong to me. I want to be his best beloved.