The other night I read my girlfriend's emails. She did it to me first, so don't judge. Also, what got me searching was the fact that when I asked her if she had feelings for someone else, she said, "No. Why? Have you been snooping?" If I wasn't fully suspicious before, I was after hearing that. Upon reading the emails, I found nothing anywhere, and it looked as if she really was squeaky clean, like Obama. Then I looked in her drafts folder, and there it was: an email to her hockey player ex who I always suspected she wasn't over, where she wrote him how she was still in love with him. I hate to say something like this because I don't do it for dramatic effect, but my heart had that crushed feeling, as in literally crushed, as if someone were wringing it out like a dish rag. It was too the point where I couldn't function all day.
Later that day she was telling me some very bad news about her family, and I wasn't able to be emotionally present for her. Big surprise, I mean, I can never be present for her, considering I'm the type of guy who expresses his feelings better through his writing than he is cable of in person, but I was in no position to support someone who was in love with someone else, someone who just gave me the aforementioned dish rag treatment. When she expressed her frustration at my inability to be supportive, I felt no other choice but to tell her about digging through her emails, to explain why I was emotionally checked out. She went in the next room, pulled out her lap top, and showed me that the email was sent to the dude before she and I even met. Oops.
I only told two people about this episode. One laughed her ass off, and the other asked me if I checked those emails looking for an excuse to break up with her. Thinking back, I kind of was.
The next night I took her out to dinner, she said some hurtful things, I swore at her, got up from the table, looked in the mirror, and said to myself, "I don't even like this person let alone love her." We drove home resolved to break up, and then we started crying, telling each other all kinds of stuff we have been feeling. She cried, I did, too, but I made sure she didn't catch me; I always do. Then we got relatively drunk for a Monday, watching a hockey game, enjoying each other's company in a way we hadn't for months. She ordered two shots on the way out, mine a chilled shot of Jagermeister, and we had unbelievably great sex. Those few sporadic times when the sex is good, there's a huge weight off our shoulders, we're giddy and childlike, and all is right with the world, for that brief while.
The next night was back to usual: awkward, she was depressed, I was distant, and there was not so much as a kiss. We barely looked at one another.
'Bartender, the lady and I will have two shots of chilled Jagermeister . . .'
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