“You’re such a disappointment.”
Who the hell are you, I thought but didn’t say. Oh I knew her well. One of the biggest bitches in the city, and the woman people thought was one of my closest of close friends.
She was beautiful. The woman who had borne a rock star his last and favorite child. She didn’t have to do anything but be beautiful. Her life work was decorating his life with color and wit. She wasn’t brash. No, her style was more hit them with kindness. Everybody but me, of course. I saw through her faux kindness. She would bring soup to sick people. Visit everybody’s old aunt. Everybody’s but mine. My relatives weren’t even supposed to be seen by me. I was supposed to accompany her on her mercy missions.
I was supposed to be famous. I was so bright. Such a good writer. Pretty too. The brilliantly wrapped package had a carpenter’s ant or bee hole in one corner causing it to be imperfect. The sparkle was ruined.
My motto had always been, “I live to make your life easier.” As long as I was solving other peoples problems and had no issues of my own I was much desired as a dinner guest, movie to travel companion. But once I brought up any problems or couldn’t fix others I was damaged goods. It was easier to play the saint role.
“You’re such a disappointment,” rings through my head at the oddest times. I wonder how many other people thought or think it but have a bit more class than she does. I walked out of her life the night she said those words.
She contacted me several times. I couldn’t help but think she was trying to lubricate her way back into my life. Not push; not shove nor be nice about it but she acted like a snake that was pretending its venom was harmless.
A lot happened in the ten years since she berated me. My life once again began to belong to me. I wrote a book.
We ran into each other at a Christmas party. The rock star looked old and tired. She had too much work.
My fiancee began to introduce us. I laughed: This is Shelby, my college roommate. I guess I forgot to mention that she lives with Nick.
To Shelby I said I only tell stories about us in college. Everything else is too boring.
If her face could have moved she would have looked at me with horror.
A friend, not at all like Shelby, who I first met at 12 began a blog this week. ChictoChick