His Court
Her.
I’ve met him before, three times.
For the first time, I was with my now ex-boyfriend. I didn’t look twice. He had a girl on his arm; a tight black dress, heels that made her ankles give in when she took a step, and wandering eyes. She was much less interested than the rest of the crowd as her arm hung low while he tried to grasp it. He wanted to show her off, he was proud.
She couldn’t care less.
The second time was more intimate. It had been during that year. I was a nanny for the family I had worked for for many years. The parents were going out with him for drinks. He had just got accepted into the academy for the police department and they were celebrating. He shook my hand, we introduced ourselves.
Again, I felt nothing.
He had worked for the husband’s company for years. I worked two jobs at the time, as well as going to school full time. I didn’t have time to think, much less enter a new serious relationship.
The third and more final time, I hid.
But, he saw me.
I had been going through the motions of a toxic relationship. I gave too much, and he gave what he could in little spurts. He was mentally ill; suffering from depression and most likely borderline personality disorder.
It took a toll on me.
I felt as though I’d lost my sense of reality to a person who wouldn’t give the effort to push his club sandwich sized thumbs against a screen to text a “good morning” or “hope you’re having a good day”.
The third time, well, that was it for me.
I was on my twelfth hour of work, and the husband and him had stumbled into the apartment at one in the morning. The wife trailed behind the crew, apologizing soberly to me, many times, for texting me all night on his behalf, telling me how much he wanted to take me out on a date.
I was insecure; I thought he was just drunk.
He couldn’t possibly want anything to do with me.
While the wife paid me, I watched a 25 year-old man plummet down five steps in a drunken stupor. After hours of interacting only with children all day, that moment of hilarity was necessary for me to drive home without feeling numb with meaningless conversation.
“Make sure he gets home okay. Don’t let him drive” I warned the wife, and she would never let him do that anyway.
“What was that, sweetheart?” He interjected the conversation.
He interest was peaked.
“Just don’t die tonight, ok? Don’t drive.” I was sarcastic, but I meant it.
“Don’t you worry I’ll be okay. But that’s sweet that you care.”
And so I left that night, clutching onto my leftovers, bags under my eyes from working days on end, hovering over a computer taking 16 credit semesters, wishing I could have a taste of being that carefree.
A week had passed, and he pressed again.
"He texted me. He still wants that date." The wife nudged me, smiling, and nodding.
"Ask him if he's still drunk from last week" I teased, but was half serious, letting my insecurities get the best of me.
"Unfortunately, no. But, I still want a date." She repeated, reading the text word for word (although not too many were said, it was enough), and my heart skipped a beat.
Human beings want to be wanted.
No matter how independent we pretend to be, when our vulnerabilities align, and we find ourselves crying into the dark of night as loneliness suffocates us, and we send that text to a person we shouldn't be talking to, we find ourselves...wanting.
This was the beginning.
Anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of his bed.
