Feeling: tired
Listening to: Cardigans - War
Reading/Watching: Jane Eyre, the BBC version

I would like to politely ask the Ghosts of Boyfriends Past to stop haunting my favorite dance club.

It is my refuge, where I go to thrash about in a ridiculous manner. I sink into the music, I loosen my joints and become fluid, because I don't give a crap who's watching.

Last time I went, I could have sworn that Sandman was there, off to the side with some chick. Upon closer inspection, it was just a random guy, hunching over the bar and too shy to dance. I didn't have my glasses on that night; it was an understandable mistake.

Today, I was about to bet money that I saw Bork, towering over everyone, lanky and confident, with the same nose and forehead and the same color hair and the same style of dress and... after several long minutes of covert inspection, during which the dude probably picked up on my scrutiny and decided I was a stalker, I finally realized it wasn't him. The chin was wrong. The nose was a little too long. And the smile wasn't wolfish enough. Besides, he was dancing like a typical awkwardly tall guy, gangly and floppy, instead of the tightly controlled, ostentatious back bends of the boy I used to know. There was a time I could have transcribed the rhythmic patterns of his laughter, his breathing, and now I couldn't even tell you what city he lives in.

That was enough for me. I left. The smoke was giving my asthma issues, anyway.

I am debating whether to go back. It was bad enough when missing Will made me see him in the outline of every tall, bearded guy wearing a button-down shirt. Then at least I could smile to myself wryly and decide to call him later.

But if it's someone I haven't spoken to, can't speak to, then it is less humorous and more haunting. I may need to avoid dark, shrouded public venues until I can fully exorcise the resurfacing demons.

I'm starting to wish I could have just five minutes to figure out what tapped the house of cards. Just five minutes to ask Bork What the fuck, dude. Three years of being best friends, sharing everything with each other, even fledgling hopes of... who knows, maybe even love, and now I haven't heard a single damn word in fourteen months. I realize my ex-husband was going psycho on both of us, but that was him, not me. And honestly, if Bork thought he had it bad... it was a cakewalk compared to what I was dealing with. You'd think three years of history would earn me five minutes of closure. As if he'd give me five. As if he'd give me one.

And there we go: the reason it still haunts me.

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