It's not that I caught him cheating with the slutty girl from next door. Well, it is that too, I suppose, but the thing that really made me angry was that I caught them in our bed, the one we bought together, with so much thought, at that fabulous secondhand shop in Wynberg Main Road.
And that they were entwined in our beautiful white sheets. I'd love to say that they were 4 gazillion thread Egyptian cotton, but, they weren't. I am living within a budget here, even more so now that I've kicked him out. They were good, pure cotton sheets, though, that we'd bought, together. Bastard.
And what did I do, when I walked in on the encounter, having come home early from work with a headache? Our bedroom door was open, and I could hear strange noises coming from inside so I was a little cautious, in case it was burglars or something horrible like that.
The scenario went something like this:
I peered around the corner of the door to be confronted by Noah's butt moving above Peroxide Slut. I felt the blood drain from my face as I squealed like a schoolgirl confronted by a spider. As Noah rolled off her, Peroxide Slut, sounding like she was being strangled said: "Amelia!" Yes, Noah's girlfriend, Amelia. The one you're currently underneath. I'm sure I wasn't, really, thinking that at the time but it's my story, I get to fill in the details.
Noah mumbled, "Oh my god," as I backed out of the door stuttering. " What the... Oh, excuse me, I'm interrupting."
Yes, dear readers, that's what I said after walking in on the man who I was going to marry shagging the slutty peroxided woman from next door. And let me just state, immediately, that the marriage-that-was-to-be was on his insistence, not mine - I've never had any huge desire for the Big White Wedding. Commitment? Yes. Faithfulness? Absolutely. But the papers, the ceremony, everyone looking at you while your brand new husband frootles around looking for your garter under your dress? Not so much.
I backed out of the room, went to the kitchen, reached for the bottle of red wine from the wine rack, the one he'd been keeping 'for a special occassion', opened it and poured myself an enormous glass. I know, I know, alcohol doesn't solve anything. That's not the point. It was what my first instinct said, and aren't you supposed to follow your first instincts? I sat down at the kitchen counter and saw Blonde Slut scamper past the kitchen door on the way to the front door, Noah just behind her.
A minute later he appeared at the kitchen door. This time the conversation had me saying ever-so-slightly more.
Noah, looking ever-so-trite, using his calming, yoga voice, "Amelia, I'm sorry. It was a once..."
I looked up at him, over the rim of my glass as I spat out, "I do not want to hear it. I do not wish to see your face. Remove yourself from this, our, kitchen and then from this house. And take the sheets with you."
Taking a sip of my wine, I watched him come closer. "But, sweetie, can't we..."
I spat the wine back in my glass (elegant, yes) and then spat the words out, "Sweetie? SWEETIE? Get out before I throw this glass at your head."
He slunk off while I sucked down the wine and poured myself another glass. I phoned my best friend, Becky, and told her. She's married, with children. "I'll be right over. I've got a great bottle of red. You're going to need more." We've been friends for... well... forever, you can see why. I put the phone down and Noah came into the kitchen again. He had his puppy dog look on. I seethed.
I couldn't even bring myself to look up. "Get. Out."
He left and, as the door squeaked shut (I must get some Q20, it's still squeaking), through my seething, I felt my heart break. That was six months ago. An embarrassingly large amount of red wine has been consumed since and there was an extended period when my hair looked stringy because I stopped washing it regularly.
A lot of other things had happened before, more will happen. I will fill in the gaps as we go along. This blog will, hopefully, be a record of my finding myself again. Will I? I bloody well hope so. Be warned, this will probably involve plenty of self-injurious behaviour. I know myself. Well, I think I do.
In the meantime, I'm Amelia, I am 30-years-old, and things in my life imploded in on themselves, spectacularly. It's nice to meet you.