SLUMMING

She’s thinner than I remember.  Jesus, talk about the last person I expected to see at this neighborhood garage sale.  And seeing her in that state.  God, she looks good.  Better than she ever looked with me/  And she’s with that ultra-hipster guy.  Is that one of those ethnic-looking wads from the “band” she keeps texting me about?  Like we’re still dating or even friends anymore.  Hate to be the dick, sweetheart, but you dumped me.  Stop texting me and inviting me to parties.  Jesus, I hope she doesn’t see me.  Ah, good.  Keep walking your unhealthy, skinny ass up the sidewalk.  What is that guy anyway?  Is he black or Somali?  Indian?  Shit, I can’t peg him.  Well, the one thing I don’t want is to be introduced to a guy who’s outwardly cooler than me.  Here I am wearing almost the exact same shit I wore when she kicked me out and he’s all black jeans, badass jacket.  I can hear the conversation they have after we meet. 

“You went out with that guy?” he’d say.
“Yeah, that’s him,” she’d reply.
“Fuck, you were slumming, baby.  Let’s go back to my place for a marathon sex session so I can wash him out of your mind.”

They probably screw constantly.  And that's why she's with him and not with me.  Thank God. 

-SLL