Oscar was mean to me.

I saw an elderly lady stare at a man as he passed by. In her stare I recognized decades of What If’s. 

What if I chose him? What if he fought for me? What if I kissed him right now?

My What ifs are a little differentWhat if I had never kissed you on my birthday? What if I hadn’t asked you down to Florida during our ‘break’? And what if after first year in the city I hadn’t forgiven you?

I think you would have been better off. The girls would have more, could be given more. I think of you falling in love. Dream of you not having to work and feed a baby in the middle of the night.

I stare at the blinking cursor on the screen and my insides scream for some kind of understanding to present itself. I beg my fingertips to pound out a strategy. But all I get is the staccato beat of the delete key and sad words that I find boring.

Fucking awards shows always make me feel sorry for myself.


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