The Toast that Killed Me
Last August 27, 2008 (you may not remember the date but I do), we were joking about being fubus. Then I said, “but if we become that, we won’t have a real relationship.” You replied, “well, what relationship do we have now? none.” We laughed about it and called it a night. Meanwhile, in the days and weeks that followed, when I doggedly waited for you to make me your girl, I settled for the lesser types of relationship. I called you my ‘pseudo-bf’ when in fact I was only your brunchmate. Later you became my ‘bff’ (best friend forever, the monicker you preferred), when the truth is I was only your freetime pal. I also accompanied you to wherever on several occasions, when I only actually heeled at your toes. There was never “more.” And nine months later, when we were at a bar by the beach with our officemates, you made a toast for the two of us (which was overheard by the others). We raised our shot glasses and you said, “for friendship.” It felt like I died, silently. I couldn’t cry, couldn’t run and disappear in the waters. I just stood there and swallowed my pride.
