I mean Bitches! As in "Yeah Bitches!", you know that saying.
Just a word, a term "Bitches". I used to hate it back when the
English language was literal in my foreigner's brain. It seems though, under the influence of the poor man's wanna be Moet and a few ginger whiskey sours on an empty stomach that word just rolled off my tongue as if I was told that that offensive to some and incredibly playful and nuanced word would be eradicated from the English language permanently.
I had to ring in the mystical catastrophic Mayan 2012 year shouting it in the comfort of my own home. With or without company, every statement is met with a "Yeah Bitches!" for certain.
I plan on having a "Bitchin' time" this year.
I resolve to, plot to, hope to and plan to "Bring IT BITCHES!"
My plan it seems has already brought me a Bitchin' dilemma.
In december of 2010, I broke off a promise of holy matrimony. He would not take the ring back. That symbol of hope, of procreation, of togetherness, of... possibilities. A promise to love, to cherish, to cooperate and compromise. A desire to build, to merge, to give parents the peace of mind that a piece of them will go on beyond you.
I needed two complicated intangibles: a terrific provider and a protector. I have daddy issues coupled with a fear of intimacy. A wicked order. I am too, fiercely able, capable and independent. A wild horse who needs to be tamed but can not be. Willing to pretend that she is malleable, wants to be, but unable to maintain the farce for too long. Yeah Bitches! It's complicated.
I stare at the red Cartier imitation box. Open it to see that adorable raised diamond solitaire in a princess setting. I still can't figure out what to do with this symbol of something that could have been. Get it cleaned? Appraised? traded? Unable to decide, I tuck it back away in the darkness of a wooden box. But, only after I slip it back on to see if it still fits. It does.
I find a framed photo. A freeze frame moment captured while in Cannes with him. We made love all afternoon and begrudgingly got dressed to attend an event at the Palaix Royale. Right before leaving, we decided to just lay, ear to ear at opposite ends of the bed. The angle was oddly unique. He took a snapshot. That photo became the "us". The one that our supportive Haitian and Italian families would proudly display in their homes. The "us" that would become the wedding invite. The frame is now cracked and split. A mild earthquake aided the prediction of our demise. I'd like to trash it, but I can't. I worry that my memory will fail me. That I may not count on it should I need the memory of happier times. Evidence that I was once close, malleable, able and willing to surrender a part of my identity. Evidence that I could compromise, be an unadulterated adult. I tuck it away too. Maybe it will disintegrate, pulverize, disappear.
I need some fresh air. I walk to The Grove and there, Heaven sends me a message about my dilemma. I need help deciphering it though. I am clear, it's been twelve months since the split and though he spent a great part of it harassing me in odd harmless ways, we knew of each other's lives. Tried to maintain the friendship part. We are after all orphans in this city and for three years, we had each other. I had my best friend, my plus one. I had my family, my emergency contact person. He, him, my fiance, my future partner for life, father of my unborn children. Home. In his arms, I had a home. He accepted me unconditionally and probably loved me too.
There he is, holding hands with his new "someone". Yeah Bitches! Knowing that an ex has moved on is a palatable concept until you see it with your own eyes, SEE it. I smile at him, at them. Greet him as he tries to block the woman from my view. A dumb ass move by him. I did SEE it. What is he trying to spare me from? I gently push him out of the way and warmly introduce myself to the woman. She is a bit startled but offers her name. It's inaudible, so he repeats it for me. It sounds like the name of the ex before me. She even looks like the ex before me. He went back to his "type".
I remarked to him once that I was NOT his "type". I liked it very much that I was not his "type". It meant that he SAW me, Nadège, loved my soul, SAW Dadou as he called me to mimic the way my Haitian grandma lovingly sings my monicker. Yes, he is, was HOME.
I watch him, them, walk away. He seems unsure about what to do with the hand she offers him. He hesitates. A few more steps, he takes the offer of her hand, but the distance between the two bodies is greater, the grip less organic and awkward. He must know, must feel my stare burn a hole through his yellow polo shirt. Time stood still, but only for me. My smile faded into a Mona Lisa grin.
In some way, I am relieved because I SAW. His Christmas day, 'Auguri' email to me, the tender hug that lingered a little too long when we last saw each other Thanksgiving week, he had someone all along.
I leave The Grove. I am suddenly in need of an analgesic, anything to numb, squelch this discomfort. I can't name what I am feeling, but I am feeling. I am certain, I do not want him back, but SEEING... "Do NOT bring this one Bitches!"
Along with being fiercely able, capable and independent, I am at times dense. The question still remains, what do I do with these symbols of what was and the promise of what could have been?
