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We parted ways in the wine aisle of the supermarket.
She walked away, a satisfied smirk plastered on her face, her sundress rippling in her wake, and an already-opened bag of pretzel rods in her hands.
I paid for my cheap beer and got into my rusty, beat-up Ford Escort.
Across the lot, I noticed her get into the front passenger seat of a brand new Mustang, a virile young man at the wheel, his face shaded by the visor.
I drove away from the market pretending I didn’t notice and didn’t care.
When I got home a few minutes later there was a message on my answering machine.
It was her.
I could hear somebody in the background announcing a cleanup on aisle something-or-other—she made the call while in the supermarket.
I hate you.
I’ve left you by now, and I’m probably riding my new man’s cock right this minute.
You fucked up.
You lose.”
I fucked up.
I lose.
I miss you, Jenny.
Don’t feel too bad about never mentioning the VD, though.
Pre-emptive revenge.
It works.