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Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Breakup Essays: Essay #6-The Living In The Perpetual State Of Distrust Breakup




Admit it, you never trusted him. So much so, that you offered to put him on your phone plan in the guise of saving money. You both knew that the reason for your altruism had more to do with his wandering eye i.e. other body parts than fiscal responsibility.
He played along with this because, he was saving a lot of money on his phone plan and it gave you the sense of security that his cheating would stop once and for all.
However, the thing about serial cheaters is that no walls, spy equipment, and/or tear filled pleas will stop them when they itch strikes them to step out on you. During these times, your intuition will go into overdrive. You will search through his phone and still find nothing.
Next, you troll his social media and email account.  You are unable to find any hard evidence to support your strong gut feeling. What you fail to take into account is the fact that he can access the Internet from his mp3 player which is password protected. His mp3 player contains apps to dating sites, his secret social media accounts, and his under the radar private email.
On the surface, he is still attentive and deferential to you. Sure, you get into a few screaming matches a week but, eventually you both calm down. He tells you every day how happy he is to be with you. He even buys you an engagement ring and asks you to be his wife. You start thinking perhaps, you were wrong after all. Your gut feeling could just be leftover insecurity from your previous relationships.
You feel guilty for always doubting his love for you. One day while cooking and laughing together in the kitchen his mp3 player begins to vibrate. A look of guilt crosses his face and immediately races over to it.
“Is everything okay?” You ask concern is rising in your voice.
“Yeah.” He mumbles frantically trying to lock it.
You continue cooking but, the laughter has subsided. Now, your suspicions are once again aroused. You have already established that his phone is clean. But, something tells you to have a look at the mp3 player.
You keep his wineglass filled throughout the entire dinner. As a result, he gets sleepy and goes to bed early sans his mp3 player which is still on the counter. You spend the next 20 minutes or so going through the motions of cleaning the kitchen.
When you are sure that he has passed out completely, you grab his mp3 player.  You watched him fiddling with it earlier this evening.  You take the charger and plug it into his laptop. It takes only a few seconds for incriminating data to appear. You see the apps loaded onto it. Though, you are unable to access them without a password. Your suspicions have been confirmed.
Now, what should you do with this information? You could confront him but, then he would know that you were snooping through his stuff. You jot down all of the names of the dating apps and ask your best friend to assist you in this sting operation of sorts. A few days later, she confirms your suspicions and forwards all of the incriminating evidence to you. Now, you have more than enough proof to confront him.  Still, you wait another week before making a move.
One evening before dinner, you mention to him that there will be a couple of surprise dinner guests in attendance. He nods and doesn't seem to be too fazed by your news. When the doorbell rings, you ask him to answer it. He does and he comes back into the kitchen looking as though he has had the shock of his life.
Two women enter the kitchen behind him. They smile and step closer to embrace you. 
You pretend to go through the motions of making introductions.
            "Oh wait, you guys have already met one another."
He blanches not sure whether to flee or deny. The expression on your face remains impassive.
"These ladies were kind enough to inform me of your overtures towards them on a certain dating app. Which I found strange, you know, since we are supposed to be married."
He is standing stock still.
"Luckily for you, Brenda whom you might know better as ChocolateFantasy14 is co-owner of a storage facility and she has promised to give you a great rate on her services. Which you will be needing in the matter of about 15 minutes."
Brenda is a tall attractive African-American woman with mocha skin and close-cropped dark hair.
His eyes fill with tears.
"Hey, don't cry. Tiffany whom you might know better as AgentofHealing56, here is a Reiki healer and she has also promised to give you a good price on a session with her. So, between getting a discount on a storage facility and Reiki healing. You should be all set in the world."
"Maybe, we should talk-" He stammers.
You shake your head sadly.
"There's nothing to discuss. You have made choices which I cannot overlook. Now, it's time for you to live with the consequences. Your stuff that you moved in with is boxed up on the back porch."
"Baby-" He pleads.
You smile coldly as you glance at the clock on the wall. "Wow, it is getting late. Brenda's crew has another consultation in an hour. We probably should get you moved out."
You nod to Brenda and she walks across the kitchen to the back door. She flings it open to reveal 2 big burly African-American men wearing matching black T-shirts with "Brenda's Got Moves" emblazoned on the front in white letters. They are loading up his boxes onto dollies.
You hand Brenda his car keys.
Brenda heads outside and Tiffany silently follows.
He stands there staring at you in disbelief.
But, you don't even feel a twinge of sympathy for him.
"That's your cue to leave as well." You say.
He shuffles out with his head down.
You close and lock the door. Good thing, you thought to have all of the locks and alarm codes changed. Best of all, you kicked him off of your phone plan. You aren't too worried about him.
There are plenty of naive women out there whom will pay his bills and take care of him financially. You should know since you used to one of them.
None of that matters anymore, all you know is that this is the last time that you will put up with living in a constant state of perpetual distrust.





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