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Things We Mean, Mean We Things.

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A club moment (Part 1).

The entire night club is laughing at me. They all knew that I fell for the “i’m looking for a relationship” trick and the “you’re so different” con. They knew slipping into my pussy folds was cheaper than the section my conman is currently dancing and gurgling top shelf liquor in. I fake rummaged through my purse, wondering if spending 12 out of the 20 dollars to my name on a mid-shelf cocktail could be justified as an emergency expense.

My bargain bin booty and I watch him tilt his camera, performing for social media folks who didn’t know or care that my heart is breaking behind the scenes. He looks beautiful. I hope he thinks I do too. I pull at my dress. Screw him.

My girlfriend dances beside me, too drunk for shame. I try to show her that the nigga I been oozing and bruising about is in the corner jumping on the couch with girls that for sure look good in their dresses.

“Where girl? I don’t see him?!” She shouted, breaking her neck each way.

I point.

“I see him! That bastard, he got all them drinks, girl go get you one! That’s the least he can do!” She pushed my shoulder.

Great, now my pussy is walking further down the judgment line.

The entire club is laughing at me, I know it.

I tried to catch his eye, but couldn’t. I moved closer, pressing against the crowd, sliding behind gyrating couples, bumping bodies that belong to confused faces. Everyone is annoyed at my urgency. I apologize here and there.

My eyes water while the sounds of “don’t-trust-these-hoes” and “fuck-that-bitch” soundtrack my misery, I bob my head. I snap some fingers.

He sees me. I wanted to ask him the same question I asked him when he told me he wasn’t looking for anything after I had given him everything. Why couldn’t you love me?

Instead I stretched my neck over the velvet rope that separated us and yelled over the music, “You said you don’t really do clubs anymore…”

He smiled, leaned back, and mouthed, “you said the same thing.”

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