I sat at the bar. Ten seats away sat a woman with whom I had made out, one time. I hadn’t seen her in the months since that one time.
Several men surrounded her, clamoring for her attention. Jealousy surged through my veins, pulsing, throbbing. I called her names (in my head). I called the men names (in my head).
My rage is born of an ancient, omnipotent chain of fantasies and thoughts:
- She should want me (and only me).
- If she wants other men, that somehow diminishes me.
- It reflects poorly on her that, in my presence, she doesn’t drop everything for me.
- It reflects poorly on the men surrounding her that they’re trying to seduce/win/take advantage of her.
- If I were to seduce her it would reflect well on both of us.
It’s fucking crazy.
I don’t matter to her (and the truth is, she doesn’t matter to me). We play no role in one another’s lives. I hadn’t thought of her since we made out. She likely hadn’t thought of me, either. To the extent either of us is anything to the other, we are nothing other than a bit of diversionary fun.
In a best case scenario, it’s a lot of diversionary fun. But still. That’s it.
In spite of this, the drama playing out in my mind has much higher stakes.
Postscript: turns out, the woman at the center of the scrum isn’t even the woman with whom I previously had made out.