San Diego or Bust
by Vicki Batman
My boyfriend is a dirt wad. I just decided.
With a humpf, I dragged my pink tote up the narrow aisle to the plane's exit, accidentally banging it into the seats along the way. The relieving notion of being back home in Sommerville caused the tension in my chest to fade a smidgen.
A quick peek to the exit told me where Davis, my boyfriend, stood waiting for the okay from the ground crew to head out. His glance my way didn't look at all pleasant. Similar to one wrapped in disappointment with a downward tilt of his mouth.
I didn't care much. I just decided.
The words creep, jerk, moron, and “why in the hell am I still dating him??” jumbled my thoughts around. My heart pounded as anxiety ratcheted inside me again.
Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should not put up with him anymore.
The deepest part of me knew I shouldn’t be with Davis Griffith Swansea, III any longer. I was just in denial. Over the past year, I’d had brief, momentary twinges of dumping him; then, he’d go and do something incredibly romantic like bring me Godiva chocolates—“I know how you love these.” Or buy me a new book by my favorite author—“I happened to see this today.” Or whisk me off to an intimate dinner à deux at the latest and greatest bistro--"I know you'll like this place."
My head had gone stupid.
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