Room 205

A weekend heaux tale.

I. 

I used to be the queen of cutting niggas off. If he said something that made me feel some type of way — BLOCKED! Did something I didn’t like or thought was disrespectful? BYE! My cut-off game was so strong I wouldn’t even give a nigga the chance to offer an explanation or reason. I would block, delete, and move on like he never existed. It had always been that simple for me. And yet, when it comes to him, I can’t seem to find the scissors. I’ve tried all my old tricks: blocking him on social media, deleting his number, ignoring the barrage of calls, texts, and emails. But I eventually fold because I can never resist him for too long, and that shit bothers me because I don’t know what sets him apart from his predecessors. Wait — that’s a lie. I know exactly what it is. The emotional side of my brain tells me it’s because he’s the only man I’ve ever been in love with; it’s our connection…our passion…the potential…the familiarity. But then when I think about the fucked up shit he did that drove us to this point, the logical side of my brain is quick to remind me that a man who loves me would never do what he did. Is this what Eve was talking about when she said love is blind and it’ll take over your mind?

II.

It’s been like six weeks since I came to St. Louis, and I’m still reeling and recovering. I’m still in search of answers. More than anything I want clarity about what’s next. Where do I go from here? How do we move forward? Should we move forward or should I just move on without him? I’m in a constant state of introspection and self-reflection. It’s ugly here because I’m forced to admit that I wasn’t really an innocent bystander in our dysfunction. I actively contributed to it in a number of ways. Mostly by holding my truth in and being dishonest with myself about a lot of shit that I wasn’t happy with long before it got as bad as it did. And the more I replay the events of that fateful December evening over in my head, the more apparent it is to me that God makes no mistakes. None of this was a coincidence. This had to happen just as it did. By no means do I excuse or justify his choices and actions that day, but I see now that I needed to be pushed — hard. It was time for me to leave, to be away and be by myself for awhile. And if things hadn’t went down the way they did, there’s no doubt in my mind we’d still be in the same place having the same arguments about the same shit. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.  

III.

When he told me he wanted to come to St. Louis and spend the weekend with me, I obliged. I couldn’t resist this time. I needed to be with him again. In part, to see if that feeling was still there. You know, the spark and butterflies. I wanted to touch him...taste him...be all over him. It’s perfectly normal to have these urges for your ex, I’d convinced myself. The days leading up to his arrival seemed longer than usual. I was weary at work and anxious for the weekend. When he finally showed up Saturday afternoon, I was jumping for joy inside but playing it super cool on the outside. He always tells me my problem is that I try to act hard when I’m not. He’s right, but I’ll never tell him so. I feel his brown eyes dancing all over my body as I take off my coat and put my bags down. “Damn bae, you look good,” was the first thing he said as he embraced me. I smirk. We kiss. And the rest of what happened in room 205 remains between us. 🙃

Until the next cup! ☕️

—Andrea

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