Rage tiptoes through me.
Oh, and when he convinced me we should wait a little longer to introduce our families to each other in person? That was a con I fell for because I’m not close with my dad or stepmom. Something I bet he’s used to his advantage.
There are so many red flags, I stop feeling sorry for myself and realize I am an idiot. An angry idiot.
“Get up,” I whisper to myself, fighting the urge to find the key, storm inside, catch them in bed, all in a hope of reclaiming some of my pride. And while vindication would be fabulous, I’m not certain I’d accomplish anything beyond appearing insane, considering my fingers are covered with sand and dirt. My boots are drenched in coffee and mud. My pants can’t get wetter. My hair is flat and sticking to my head. My makeup’s no doubt to my chin. And I’m fresh off a morning flight.
I look like hell. This is not how I want to be when I catch them in bed, validating his behavior in their shallow minds.
I force myself up. My heart is heavy, akin to a fat lifeless slug. I swear it falls inertly down my body, dropping out the bottom of my pants into the puddle where I leave the key to his house. I shoulder my weekender bag once more, leaving the gate open but taking the coffee cups with my name on them, and say goodbye to every single thing I’ve left at his house.
I don’t know what to do. How to deal with this.
Using my filthy hand, I wipe my face, feeling the grit of sand and dirt against my cheek.
An idea creeps into my mind but it’s insane. Complete madness.
Words I once read in a story flit about with the idea, radical sabbatical.
With heavy doubt and grimy trembling fingers, I call my cell phone company, angrily typing in my PIN and snarling, “Customer service,” at the poor robotic voice as I stomp toward home.
There’s no turning back.
I need a radical sabbatical.
And this is a one-way street.
“Hi there,” the customer service rep says. “My name is Randall. I’ll be assisting you today. Thank you for entering your PIN. Can I verify your name?” He sounds pleasant, but I can’t mimic it. My whole world, mind, body is hanging on by a thread.
“Jenny Snowdon, and I need my number changed, immediately,” my voice cracks but I refuse to cry.
“Okay, and for our records can I ask—?”
“Look, Randall”—I take a shuddering breath—“I don’t want to be rude, but I’ve just caught my boyfriend of three years”—angry hate tears burst through the dam, making me a seething and sniveling mess as I trudge through the puddles—“with another woman. A woman he specifically told me he didn’t have a thing with.” And I am now squealing, “And I need to change the number so he can’t reach me. He’s probably one of those gaslighting sons of bitches they do 60 Minutes specials on.”
“Oh—uhm—of course. Do-do you have a preference for your new number?”
“No, thank you. I—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I am losing my mind. “I shouldn’t have said any of that. It’s just that I saw this story once about this man who needed to lose weight so he went on a radical sabbatical, and he changed his life by leaving it. He simply walked away from it all. And I might need to do that.” I wipe my face again with my wet and dirty hand, hating the six blocks back to my apartment.
“Okay. Of course. It’s no problem. I’ll be one moment and we will change that for you. And—I’m very sorry this is happening to you.” He disappears into the weird void all call center people go when they put you on hold.
The racking sobs slip from me, assuming the silence is a safe place as the vile fury turns into foolishness and self-loathing.
Eventually, he comes back, speaking softly and sounding unsure, “Ms. Snowdon?”
I hold back my weeping and squeak, “I’m here.”
“I have your new number. Would you like to reset your PIN on the account as well?”
“No, he doesn’t know it.”
“All right. Well, I’ve sent you an email with your new number and instructions to ensure you activate it properly. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, thanks. You’ve been excellent,” I cry pathetically and hang up. Then I log into my Netflix and change the password. By the time I’m back home, I’ve also changed my Apple password on the account so the Apple TV I bought him won’t work.
The moment I’m inside, staring at my apartment, memories of us here hit hard and fast. The rage and realization of the betrayal overwhelms me and I start to clean.
It’s a second blast of furious energy made up of a need to cleanse him from my life.
Flinging open drawers in the bathroom, I shout at myself and him and everyone as I move with speed and viciousness to ensure anything he touched is gone.
I storm to the bedroom, ripping his clothes from my closet and drawers and tossing them into the garbage bags where I put his toiletries. I’m blind with fury as every piece of him is purged and dumped into a bag which I place in the hallway of my building.
I can’t imagine how the scene looks: a filthy, crazed, desperate, broken, madwoman rage-stomping around her apartment, ransacking it. And when I’ve put the last bag in the hall and it’s over, I’m grateful no one witnessed this.
Closing the door, I lean against it and cry loudly, giving myself the necessary moment before I go to my laptop and begin the online purge. It’s after
