I just can’t stop thinking about her. The woman my ex’s wife used to fuck. It’s been days now since we ran into each other. I meet her for the first time at a bar I am reading an essay at for an open mic, about a date with someone I met on Zoom. She’s there with a mutual friend of mine. What is it about her that I can’t get out of my mind? Her voice sounds like an adorable mouse. She has the literal tiniest Louis Vuitton handbag I’ve ever seen, dangling from her long fingers, so small it could probably only hold one pack of cigarettes and that’s it. Her pumpkin-spice sweater dress swallows her whole.
She was so cool.
Did I want to fuck her? Or did I want to be her?
It’s the question everyone asks but I’ve never felt it until now.
Why do I want her to like me? Is it because she is taller than me? I am constantly in need of validation from taller people that I am a living and valuable human being too. Do tall people ever feel small? Like in a less than important kind of way? Or is it built in when they end up being over 5’2” or 5’3”? Do they feel powerful hovering over someone or do they feel as weak as I do sometimes?
Her best friend she brings along has a shaved head and is maybe one of the hottest people I’ve ever seen. Of course the shaved head woman doesn’t live here, either. All three of them are from out of town. And I later hear from my ex who heard from her wife who heard from her ex in the pumpkin sweater dress that her best friend is in a relationship and monogamous, unfortunately. For us all, really. The three of them, the one with the tiny bag in the orange that I can’t stop thinking about, the shaved head best friend, and our mutual friend sit at the bar with dainty martinis in their hands, laughing louder than everyone else in the room, exuding an energy of protection around themselves like they are some sort of coven, untouchable. Like at any minute, they might turn around and their faces could morph into Regina, Gretchen and Karen and say to everyone that passes by, you can’t sit with us.
I wonder if it’s because I heard that she swiped right on my Tinder profile in front of my ex’s wife probably to fuck with her, that I am so intrigued by her, or maybe it’s because I heard that she wouldn’t sign my copy of her book when I let my ex’s wife borrow it when they started seeing each other. I wonder if it’s because she is my ex’s wife’s ex, and that gives her a certain edge that no one else really has except for her. Does that make her off limits? I wonder if it's because the first line in her book is I get creamy standing straight, legs apart, and before I knew who she was in my life, it made me feel a certain type of way.
I know that she never met my ex, the wife of her now ex, so it feels almost taboo that we are meeting, that we are interacting with each other before they meet, if they ever do. By association, it feels like I am simultaneously in a neutral position and an unknown one. I actually don’t know where I stand. I don’t know if we are supposed to hug, if we are supposed to talk, if we are supposed to even look at each other. In girl code, I am supposed to hate her. But what about poly code? What about adult woman code? And definitely what about lesbian code? Don’t all lesbians end up fucking each other at some point anyway, even if it’s just through the eyes?
When I see her and her shaved head friend and our mutual friend sitting at the bar, I go over to our mutual friend and hug her. I am drawn to their circle, I want to be inducted as their Cady.
You did so well up there, my friend says to me. All I want is her approval, even though I think I already have it, even though she has let me into her apartment before to borrow her books, even though I think she sees a little bit of her in me and I see a little bit of me in her. My ex’s wife’s ex girlfriend compliments me on my reading too, but I don’t remember what she says about it. I think I am too lost in listening to the high pitched softness of her voice to really listen to what’s coming out of her mouth. When I put on my jacket to leave the bar, I pull an orange rabbit fur over my arms and she says to me, how glamorous. It feels like she approves. I feel like I have pleased her. I feel like I am a dog licking another dog's mouth incessantly, submitting.
