Well, my ex-husband, Alex, recently had a chance to air his grievances [Alex Gets His Say]. And how very predictable it all was.
I won’t bother to refute his side of the story. I won’t say his claim of being unloved, overworked, and misunderstood was a fabrication (but he IS a lawyer, after all).
At any rate… actions speak louder than words. And unfortunately, my ex-husband’s actions always shout “asshole” loud and clear.
After the divorce, my good friend Richard invited me out to dinner. He’d just been dumped by Xander, his live-in boyfriend of two years, and he needed a distraction as badly as I did.
“Doctor Love prescribes a night out on the town,” he pronounced. “We’ll forget about Alex and Xander and what shits men are, and drown our sorrows in filet mignon and creamed spinach. And lots of martinis.”
On the day of our date, I had my hair and nails done and splurged on a slinky, sexy dress at Bloomingdales in anticipation of our dinner. Over vodka martinis, Richard regaled me with amusing stories about Xander.
I hadn’t laughed so much in months.
“It’s working,” Richard observed with satisfaction as he laid his napkin aside. “You’re having a good time, aren’t you?”
“I am,” I said, and realized it was true. For the first time in months, I really was having fun.
“Good. Alex should have a skull and crossbones tattooed on his dick. He’s toxic. And ingesting toxins isn’t good for you.”
I maneuvered the olive out of my drink and popped it in my mouth. “Maybe instead of a divorce lawyer, I should’ve called Poison Control.”
Suddenly, Richard’s eyes widened as he looked over my shoulder. “Oh, shit, Dana – don’t look, but your ex-husband’s here,” he hissed. “And he’s headed our way.”
Of course I did look. Alex, resplendent in an expensive suit, was indeed striding straight towards us. A blonde in a red bandage dress trailed unhappily behind him.
He came to a stop at our table. “Well, isn’t this cozy?” He turned to me. “Didn’t waste any time, did you? The ink’s barely dry on the divorce decree, and you’re already being wined and dined by some new schmuck.”
I bristled. “Richard is a friend, Alex, not that it’s any of your business-”
“-or should I say, ‘Supped and schtupped’?”
“Alex, really-”
“-wooed and screwed?”
I thrust my chair back, mortified. And furious. “How dare you!” I hissed. “You have no right to make a scene. What do you care what I do, anyway? We’re divorced!”
“I don’t care. I just think Mr Rico Suave here should know what he’s getting into, that’s all.”
“For God’s sake, Alex – he’s gay!” I snapped. “He bats for the other team!”
Alex glanced at her, then at Richard, and frowned. “He doesn’t look gay.”
“Sorry,” Richard said mildly, “I left my mesh shirt and leather chaps at home.”
“I can’t believe you just said that!” I snapped.
Richard looked at me in surprise. “Did you want me to wear my leather chaps? You never told me.”
“Not you – Alex! I can’t believe he said you don’t ‘look’ gay.”
“And I can’t believe you said I bat for the other team.” Richard lifted his brow. “Cliché, much?”
“Alex,” the blonde demanded, “can we go now, please?”
“You know, Dana,” Alex said with a shake of his head, “I didn’t have you pegged for a fag hag. Can’t find any straight guys willing to put up with you?”
I bristled. “And I didn’t have you pegged as a child molester, Alex.” I glared at his girlfriend. “Why don’t you take Illegally Blonde home now? It’s probably way past her curfew. Her daddy’ll be worried.”
He ignored me and eyed Richard with contempt. “If you’re smart, you’ll pay the bill and get away from this piranha in Prada while you still can.”
“Better a piranha in Prada,” Richard sniffed as his glance raked over Blondie, “than a floozy in Forever 21.”
Afterwards, as Richard flagged down a taxi (“Sorry,” he apologized, “but I’m headed to Adams Morgan”), I turned to him and moaned, “What a disaster! I hate Alex. He’s living proof that there’s no such thing as a happy ending.”
“Don’t give up yet, Cinderella,” Richard advised. “There’s a prince out there somewhere, just waiting for you. Or maybe even a Marlboro Man.”
“You mean the strong, silent type? Dependable? Loyal?”
He nodded. “With a cleft in his chin, and strong, tanned forearms. And maybe even-” his expression grew momentarily dreamy “-leather chaps.”
“Thanks, Richard – for everything.” I smiled and hugged him, and slid into the cab. Another evening ruined, no thanks to my toxic shit of an ex-husband-
“Excuse me, ma’am? Could I share this taxi?”
I looked up to see a tall, rugged man, dressed – not in chaps and spurs – but a navy suit and dark navy tie, a briefcase in his hand and a hopeful expression on his face.
“Sure,” I murmured, and scooted over.
“I’m supposed to meet up for drinks in Georgetown with some work buddies. I’m Mackenzie, by the way. My friends call me Mac.” He smiled warmly and thrust out his hand. “I just moved here from Colorado. Nice to meet you.”
Well, well, I thought as I introduced myself. My very own Marlboro Man. “Nice to meet you, too. I’m glad we’re going the same way.”
He smiled and met my eyes. “Not half as glad as I am, ma’am.” He hesitated. “I don’t suppose you’d like to have a drink with me, would you? I mean, I know you don’t know me-”
“I’d love to,” I murmured. “Just one, though.”
And as the taxi pulled away, I smiled. Maybe, just maybe, I’d gotten my happy ending.
At least for tonight.
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