American History Why

HIS VOICE.

I had to hear it again.

UGH.

Not that I wanted to, AT ALL, but I had to.

Phone calls from the mortgage company, asking for my ex-husband, were growing in repetition now over a month. I’m not involved with the Texas house anymore.

I said to him, peacefully, I didn’t want any argument, I just wanted everything having to do with our past shared property to be his business, not mine. I didn’t expect anything more than peace in the matter. X said he’d handle it in a voice that I wished I could trust. I did tell Turkey Neck thank you for addressing the problem. Speaking in a fang-baring tone, the Michelin Man reminded he wasn’t doing a damn thing for me. I let my kindness override his irritability, knowing he’s the kind of person who constantly seeks out battles; his preferred weapon, the telephone. He must hate the Internet now that social media has taken over.

We have been divorced four glorious years and I sold my share of the house for a $1. I don’t even remember receiving that $1, but that’s just how much I hated him, how much trauma I was experiencing, I couldn’t give a shit about no dollar bill. Because of him I am this way, and today is a post traumatic stress kind of day. At least the eyebrows can perk up a bit because the issue with the house is no longer.

Regicide was the WOTD. Means ‘death of a king.’ X was no king; with his nasally, holier-than-thou, mawkish New Yoork accent he reminded me what a fat, dumpy, hair coated asshole he is.

He remains such.

With a, “you do you, bye bye!” I ended the call. In the next room, my angel begins to rouse from sleep. I asked for a hug. He lifts the sheets, inviting me in and I curl into my favorite position: head on his hairy chest, one arm wrapped over his torso, my legs tucked up against his thigh. I feel as if set ablaze from within. He feels like he’s fireproof. His embrace absorbs my flashbacks; with continual kisses to the forehead, the memories disappear.

Due to my ex’s bleating goat voice, I feel as if my soul’s been thrown through tempered glass, impaled everywhere. Every loving hug received I feel a shard push out of me, emerge ooze-covered, to dissipate in whatever hell space X resides. At this point I should be crying, but what’s to cry about? I told him flat out I want to be left alone, and I don’t want him to give out my phone number. I want peace and privacy, two things I could never get from X, two things I’m joyfully experiencing from Why.

“Why are you with me?” is my check-in question.

“Because I love you,” is always his check-in answer.

When he says that, whatever hate I feel in my heart finds something else to do.

X wavers but Y remains.