You were the first woman I talked to after my eight-year marriage ended.

To be fair, there was nothing noteworthy about our meeting.

My heart didn’t skip a beat, my pulse didn’t race.

I only sat across from you in the crowded cafeteria. 

I judged your plate; thought two burgers and a load of fries were too heavy for a girl your size.

You judged mine too.

Said my plate made yours look terrible.

I laughed; my first real show of merriment in months.

I said a salad does have its use. It’s bland, organic, kind of how my life is. 

Did we talk more than food that day?

It’s impossible to tell.

Our brief cafeteria chat became an around-the-clock texting.

You didn’t care that I mostly talked about my ex, you listened. 

It didn’t bother you that you were half my age, twenty-five to my forty. 

Your reply was a blush emoji when I told you about my kids.

You wanted you to meet them even. 

Baby you were interested in me, drew me in.

Made it natural for me to want to leave my salad life and embrace your burgers and fries. 

Then you changed.

Was it the kiss?

It couldn’t have been the sex, you told me it was good. Best you’ve had. 

So what then?

I know I agreed to your wanting to keep us casual, but you’d forgive me for believing casual died for us when we met again, and again…and again.

Casual drowned in the Mississippi River when you screamed out my name. 

Hell, casual morphed into unspoken commitment when you met my kids.

So again I ask you, what changed?

Was it my rheumy response when you said you wanted to go on a two-week vacation alone?

Like you needed a break from me?

It hurt me deeply, but I let you go.

So how could you hate me for calling you out when you ignored all my FaceTime calls?

Why did you flip when I said I knew you weren’t in Florida?

You were in Fort Worth.

That was all it took for him to get you, huh? A suburban home and picket fence.

To think you had the audacity to call me a stalker.

How is wanting to know my woman’s whereabouts considered stalking?

Now you’re silent.

You won’t talk to me or return my calls.

That’s fine.

I guess our casual is done, then.

That’s fine.

You left your sweater on my couch, by the way.

I’ll burn it like I would this journal and memories of you.

Sad as it sounds, babe, I don’t hate you.

I regret you my darling buxom girl, my fucking rookie mistake.