It’s usually a conference room of some type. The cramped sterile kind you find at a hotel by the airport. There’s a long oval table with way too many blue chairs and maybe a dry erase board that hasn’t been dry-erased very well. Mingling around the room are the guys. This is where it changes. Sometimes it’s just ex-boyfriends, sometimes only guys I’ve slept with and sometimes, like this time, it’s ex-boyfriends, guys I’ve slept with and guys I’ve wanted to screw but never did. If I had a lesbian lover in my past she’d be there too. She’d make it interesting. But I don’t.
They are holding little paper plates with various appetizers on them. Chips, dip, fruit. Mini quiches. Cookies with bites out of them. They are making small talk and laughing and sometimes punching each other in the arm. A couple of them are pacing near the wall. One is off by himself looking perfectly suicidal and we all know who that is. They are waiting, but not for me.
I can see them but they can’t see me. I feel anxious and excited and the weirdest emotion of all, love. I feel love for every single one of them. I want to be in the terrible room too. But all I can do is watch and wonder if they are talking about me. Have they discovered what they have in common? Whom they have in common? Have they discovered me? Am I the one who got away? Am I the crazy one they tell stories about when they’ve had too many at happy hour? Am I anything?
A man walks in. I did not have sex with him. I don’t even know him. He has a clipboard. He makes everyone sit in those uncomfortable looking blue chairs. It is then that I realize my husband isn’t among them and I breathe a sigh of relief.
*photo by jonnyfixedgear.