Musings of a Divorcee

I tucked myself in the last row and rested my head on the window of the charter bus. A momentarily coolness from the glass. Eyes closed, stilling myself for the 45 minute ride back to the resort. The catamaran ride, cheap tequila, and hours in the sun had my stomach feeling a bit upset. 

The muffled sounds of other tourists settling in to their seats.

Him, next to me, moving and chatting with her. Ears keyed in on, “Mm, that’s what I wanted.” He groaned low, amused, and fresh. Barely shifting my head from the window, I opened my eyes to see his hand slid under her ass, and her hand rubbing his upper thigh.

Heart thumping through my chest, “woowww, so you just going to touch her in front of me like that?” Talking through teeth, jaw clinched, knot tight in my throat.

His eyes, glazed and surprised as they met mine. Locked in, moments of silence that felt like hours…other things registering behind his eyes: smugness and wrecklessness? “Yeah, I did.” An audible shrug in his voice, a “so what?” unspoken.

My face hot from the disrespect, tear ducts burning. Anger boiling beneath my skin.

The remainder of that ride fragmented in my memory. Verbal confrontations with them both, fight starter kit activated (locs in pony and Vaseline on my face), texts to my niece to find me flights back…

What I’ll never forget though, as clear as day, a voice in my inner ear “get home to your kids.”

Right, my priorities. Locked in.