"Sorry. We've...we've decided to get back together."
The words were in the back of my mind as I entered the local bar/dance club on 145th street between Amsterdam and Broadway in Harlem with my friend. They were from the man I had fallen in love with and were spoken to me just a couple of days ago. He went back to his girlfriend of eight years.
A dance club mix of Michael Jackson's Billie Jean emanated throughout the club. As my friend and I walked towards the center of the room, the rhythm and beats pulsated from the walls.
It was dark and packed with gyrating bodies. Within minutes, my girlfriend became entwined with her boyfriend.
I yearned to be wanted. To have someone desire me.
He was dancing in the corner of the dance floor and looking at me. Tall like my ex, yet fair-skinned with an easy grin on his face. He started dancing his way over to me.
He held his hand out towards me.
I couldn't resist the invitation because the beats were flowing through me, urging me to move. And because this tall, good-looking guy with the laid-back smile held his hand out to me.
He wanted me.
I took his hand and he led me not only to the dance floor, but later, in the weeks to come, to his apartment, to his room and to his bed.
And that continued.
Me, feeling desired, sought-after, then empty because whenever we came together, it was about the same thing.
Yet, it didn't matter because this tall, handsome, charmer wanted me. Though it was clear in his distant eyes and his rushed manner when we were done spending time together, that he really wanted something else.
So four weeks later, I sat on the floor of my room, holding the phone in my hand after dialing him for the fourth time in a row. He had picked up then.
"Mel, we're done, baby. This is not going to work," he said in his lazy drawl.
His words echoed through my head as I sat staring at the blue carpeted floor through hot, flowing tears.
Of course, it wasn't going to.
This relationship was doomed from the start.
This piece was inspired by a memoir prompt from Write on Edge which asks you to write about a relationship that you knew was doomed from the start.
The words were in the back of my mind as I entered the local bar/dance club on 145th street between Amsterdam and Broadway in Harlem with my friend. They were from the man I had fallen in love with and were spoken to me just a couple of days ago. He went back to his girlfriend of eight years.
A dance club mix of Michael Jackson's Billie Jean emanated throughout the club. As my friend and I walked towards the center of the room, the rhythm and beats pulsated from the walls.
It was dark and packed with gyrating bodies. Within minutes, my girlfriend became entwined with her boyfriend.
I yearned to be wanted. To have someone desire me.
He was dancing in the corner of the dance floor and looking at me. Tall like my ex, yet fair-skinned with an easy grin on his face. He started dancing his way over to me.
He held his hand out towards me.
I couldn't resist the invitation because the beats were flowing through me, urging me to move. And because this tall, good-looking guy with the laid-back smile held his hand out to me.
He wanted me.
I took his hand and he led me not only to the dance floor, but later, in the weeks to come, to his apartment, to his room and to his bed.
And that continued.
Me, feeling desired, sought-after, then empty because whenever we came together, it was about the same thing.
Yet, it didn't matter because this tall, handsome, charmer wanted me. Though it was clear in his distant eyes and his rushed manner when we were done spending time together, that he really wanted something else.
So four weeks later, I sat on the floor of my room, holding the phone in my hand after dialing him for the fourth time in a row. He had picked up then.
"Mel, we're done, baby. This is not going to work," he said in his lazy drawl.
His words echoed through my head as I sat staring at the blue carpeted floor through hot, flowing tears.
Of course, it wasn't going to.
This relationship was doomed from the start.
This piece was inspired by a memoir prompt from Write on Edge which asks you to write about a relationship that you knew was doomed from the start.
