I remember my rebound routes after he broke my heart. Vividly.
Being pi*s drunk, oversharing on social media, binge-partying, drunk dialing and calling him names, endless rounds of crying and eating and b*tching – and I am not ashamed. Why should I be- I had a broken heart and I was doing whatever I could to nurse it back to health!
Some men out there, though, were taking a different route. Substitution.
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True to their seemingly ‘natural’ instincts, they treated breakups just like they’d a wrestling game or an Xbox marathon. You tag a new team before one half leaves the ring or the room. After all, it isn’t safe to not have one leg on the dock before you hop off the canoe, right?
Call it my bad luck that I caught one of these charmers, right at the time when he was hopping out of his boat, unsteady in his footing on the dock! And then, it happened!
He was filling the void his ex left behind and I was falling, hard. I couldn’t explain it, because it hadn’t been quite as long since I’d been dumped but I, sure as hell, was duped in whatever it was that was happening now. Six months after my breakup, I was in bed with someone who’d been dumped six days ago!
Call it a sick joke- and yes, you can laugh- because when you walk into a wall in your own home, even when you know it is there, only because you are too busy in your own head- it’s funny!
It hurts, but it’s funny!
And that’s how this was. I was a rebound girl, through some (or all?) fault of my own, and it hurt.
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I’d hit the wall on my own, got that ugly bump on my head that tagged me as the ‘rebound girl’ and just like with any rebound girl, knew I’d be shown the door any day. Perhaps, with a cruel rejoinder to not bump into or trip over air on my way out! And no, I couldn’t blame this guy (the handsome hunk from hell with a heart guarded by tall WALLS) because I knew what I was getting into. I knew he’d been dumped not even a week ago and yet, felt no qualms in allowing him to drop his pants before he could burn past bridges. Ouch. I, perhaps, thought I could make him do that, by and by. Or maybe that’s how I am consoling myself now. Double ouch.
Either way, I was just a recovery. And recoveries don’t last a lifetime. You avail them and then, forget all about it. He did too.
True, he didn’t hide the truth in the light of the day but come nightfall and he bathed me in the sweetest of lies. He covered my body in silk-clothed kisses and painted my skin in exquisite hues of passion. Every time, he kissed my eyes with a vow of love, I saw dreams glittering in the night sky. His tender touch and his gentle whispers filled me with the promise of a love that would soon BE.
But how long does any age of lies last?
I woke up to the end, in an empty bed, the multiple creases on the bed sheet rearranging themselves to mock me with their cruel jape. F*cked by someone so he could get over the girl who f*cked him over.
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