the other woman

 

i dedicate this post to the girl who called me "whore". 

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the views today lie at 8500 dearest reader, and they can't all just be you- thanks everyone. i feel like i'm always saying that these days, but i sincerely always mean it.

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i never meant to be the other woman. and, technically, i never was. this post is not intended for him, but instead for her. i'll be transparent, i was never a home wrecker (as the home remains intact, all structural integrity still maintaining) but i most certainly, inadvertently, almost took on the role as the other woman.

it's funny, because although this post is intended for her, it will undoubtedly be he who reads this. dearest reader, what's always interesting about these cases is that although there are naturally two out of the three parties in the wrong, there is always always one of said two who is vastly more destructive. see, in this particular instance it's been years now since the calamity unfolded, and one out of the three parties even forgets of said calamity at all (in case it isn't clear, i mean me). 

i was reminded though, very recently, by him.

our story begins many moons ago and draws into focus two little girls. let's say seven years old. at such a time our brave solider was most likely facing playground bullies, our dearest reader discovering excellent music, and these two girls were often inseparable. for a short while the two coexisted with a similar dream- a beautiful voice. both singers. one freckled, one spotty. one copper, one brunette. 

the pictures show the little girls to be very close. birthday parties, school discos, park meet ups. times changed fast and the two girls were separated to opposing schools. the brunette watched her counterpart from afar as she succeeded in beauty, in talent, in everything. there was no envy, there was only pride. distance kept it's place between the girls until adulthood was on the near horizon. 

the third member of the trio of characters was tall- another guitarist (would you expect any less of me), and he and the brunette first crossed each others paths on her birthday, the day she turned sixteen. the timeline is hazy here i do believe, and the girls knew less of each other than ever. one year on and the dearest reader was first addressed (but that's for another day), and around that time a duet was formed between two of the three. he and our favourite brunette would take to the stage together frequently, and a bond was established between them with ease. of course, our freckled beauty formed a closer link with the fellow, and to this day they remain fused together. 

our brunette types to her dearest reader, and awaits her newly resized engagement ring from her matchstick man. so why even recall this? well, dearest, i shall tell you.

when everything went down (although we pretended nothing did), the promises our tall accompanist made were thrown to the wayside, and all internet attachment between the two in the musical duo was prohibited. all connections removed, blocked, whatever you want to call it. why now though is he keeping up to date, sneaking online to catch a glimpse. why, now, are you still here checking up on me? still reading? and does she even know? because i do. i can see it. you fucking fool. 

alright seeing as we've moved from third person to first, i may as well address to the second. hello, my beautiful old friend. hello lovely girl i grew up beside. this is my grand apology. i don't know what he told you, i don't know what you believe. for what i actually did (which to be clear never extended further than general chatter), i am so sorry. 

but darling girl. the reason i write to you now is not solely for this. it's because if my beautiful matchstick man told another woman he wanted her "on her knees" for him, i would want to know. 

so, for the record, it was he who moved first. not the other way around. "you're the perfect woman". 

can my name be cleared now?

sincerely, the caravan girl.