Until Death do us part

After what seems to be eternity, I wake up. Looking around, I realize I recognize the bedroom I am in – it is my ex’s. Ex ex’s maybe even? Ex squared! Shush now, I have to get out of here. Deciding to rationalize, I alertly stand up, but to then fall back on my ass again. To my horror, on my naked ass. 

Shit. I’m still half-drunk and there are birds chippering happily on the windowsill in the noon sunlight. Their positivity makes me want to throw something at them, especially when the high-pitched short cries are worsening my blistering head-ache... But I can’t find anything to throw, but when feeling the carpet around my naked body, I find my jeans, inside out. Underwear-less and with my mind beginning to spin, I somehow turn them outside in and twist myself into them and make it into the bathroom just in time to empty my nauseous stomach. Swiping off the train of sweat dripping from my forehead with my hand, a figure enters my peripheral vision.

“Up already, dear?” Slowly, I turn around – to see Alex. Out of all people in the world, in New York, out of all the exes I ever had, Alex. Alex, the living definition of an overly-attached girlfriend. Just seeing her face makes me recall her diary, where she pasted pictures of “our” wedding, “our” babies, “our” suburban house with beagles and much more. Basically, it was like the whole bank-commercial brochure, but with my face stuck onto the Ken-like model male figurine wearing a gray sweater and tight jeans. Not only was this seriously bothering, but also insulting, since my body does not resemble Ken’s even in the slightest.

This entire recollection makes me want to empty my stomach again, despite there being nothing anymore. I guess I was silent for quite a while, because she says: “You’re quiet this morning” and then gives that beaming smile she gave anytime she was content. This was especially bothering, but not as much as when she added: “You weren’t so quiet last night.” Before I know it, she approaches me and runs her fingers through my (sweaty) hair. That is all I need to feel the tsunami of repulsion and the urgent need to duck my head into the toilet again. She draws her hand away from my hair just in time so it doesn’t hit the toilet seat, though I wish it would.

Once I resurface, she smiles at me: “That’s what I should be doing after last night, not you.” I frown – and my eyes widen, as I realize the implication.

“Did we use protection?” She smiles:

“No,” and running her fingers through my hair again, she adds: “and it was beautiful!” And though I feel mentally nauseous, physically I am too weary (and empty), so I just fall on the tiled floor. Like a loyal dog, she lies down on her side, watching me pant from mental shock and physical fatigue with adoring eyes. And again, she begins running her fingers through my hair.

Like a true talkative woman, even without me saying anything, she begins giving a detailed chronological description of last night. “I knew you’ll call me - and you did, just 2 months and 4 days after we broke up! But,” she takes my hand and places it against her breast, “I knew you are the one, that we’re meant to be together!” I look directly at her:

“I called you?”

“Yes, yes!” She nods enthusiastically. “I texted all my girlfriends the moment you hung up, after you said that you’re coming over! They did not believe me, so when you came over and we made love (oh, it was beautiful, dear! Though you were drunk), I sent them a picture of you, sleeping on the floor, like a little sweet baby!” My eyes widen again:

“Wait, naked? You sent pictures of me, sleeping, naked?” She moves closer towards me as she deeply and contently hums:

“Mhmm.” I turn my head towards the ceiling. “And before you went away to sleepy-land, you said how much you love me, how much you missed me – and that you’ll be the happy father of our baby and proud head of our family.” Quickly, I respond:

“Did I really say that, Alex? Don’t lie! Did I?”

“You did, dear. You did.” There is nothing at this point for me to say than:

“Shit.” She shakes her head vehemently in disagreement.

“Oh, no! No, this is great! You know, if our baby was truly conceived this night, then you know that is another reason why we should get married!” I groan. “We will move in together, go to ultra-sound together, organise a baby-shower party... Oh, I cannot wait to tell Joan about this! She said you never wanted to marry me, but I can now prove her wrong, right dear. Dear?”

“I’d rather be dead.” She gasps.

“Don’t say that! You need to be there for our baby. And me. Until... until Death do us part!” And she embraces me fondly – and I let her.