Last night. December 16, 2007

It’s almost 3am. We’re in the booth in the back of a pub that reminds me of London; they even have Magner’s on tap.

An ice storm rages outside. Already I have received a few texts from M: he misses me, he wants me to be careful, he is going to bed but asks that I wake him when I get home.

I feel bad, but only for a moment. I have been going to bed without him almost every evening for two weeks; he will survive just one night.

We are a few shots and quite a few drinks in. The men in the bar - having witnessed our rebuff of a few brave souls who attempted to crash the party - know to leave us alone. We are in that zone when you’re drunk, but not too. Just enough to be honest and yet still articulate.

“I think I love him.” She’s tall and blonde and stunning and sleeping with her boss. Her married boss. Her married boss with five kids, 23 years older.

It’s hard for me not to side immediately with the wife. To cringe at the thought of him pulling out the “I have to work late, honey” card, spending a raucous evening with my friend and then crawling into bed with the Mrs. After a shower, because women can always smell other women. Perhaps he even kisses her forehead, tells her that he loves her, lets her initiate sex. I bet he asks about the kids, and makes plans for the weekend, and acts as if everything is normal because he’s learned to compartmentalize so, in his mind, it is normal.

And she’s none the wiser. She has no idea that he has demonized her to my friend so that my friend feels less guilty about sleeping with a married man. Isn’t that how it always goes?

“She’s awful. He wants to divorce her. He hasn’t been happy for a while,” says the tall blonde.

I want to say: “of course he tells you she’s awful! All men tell the mistress that the wife is awful! Would you continue to sleep with him if he said that she was the most amazing woman he has ever met? Making you think she’s awful is the spoonful of sugar that helps the guilt go down!”

I don’t say anything at all. I take another sip of cider instead.

The other one, the pretty brunette, plays with the straw in her Skinny Bitch (vodka and diet) and bemoans her recent quasi-break up.

“I thought he moved back from Paris for me,” she admits. It’s clear now that he didn’t. He was an ex. She had gone to visit. Feelings were reignited. They discussed getting back together. He made the announcement he was coming back.

And, a mere week after setting foot on American soil, he told her she wasn’t the one.

“I know he loves me,” she says and we all know it’s true. We all know that their different religions and backgrounds have always loomed in the background, threatening to disrupt. Until, one week in, they did.

I feel slightly superior, in my drunkeness. Because M and I are of different religions and backgrounds and we’ve had tough talks about it - heated talks, even - and yet we realized that being together is worth it. It was never really a question.

I suddenly experience the need to throw my own angst into the ring. I don’t want to be the Smug Engaged, judging the Singletons from my happy, fairytale corner of the world.

“I’ve been having dreams about my ex-boyfriend. Almost every night for the past few weeks.”

It’s not sleeping with a boss or nursing a broken heart but, hey, it’s something. In fact, it’s something that has been on my mind for a while. I’m sick of waking up and feeling confused and guilty.

“I hear that’s normal,” says the blonde. “A friend of mine who got married had a dream about an ex the night before her wedding.“

A guy who looks like he’s about nineteen years old sidles up next to the brunette, says that he noticed her drink was getting low and could he buy her another?

And just like that, the spell is broken. We realize we’re drunk and there’s an ice storm and sitting around a table in the back booth of a bar that reminds me of London is no longer appealing. It’s certainly not getting us anywhere, except drunker.

“No thanks,” the blonde answers for the brunette. “We’re actually heading out.”

And so we do, arm in arm, baby steps across the sidewalk to hail a cab, our heels threatening to give out any second on the ice.

In the backseat of the cab, watching the east side fly by, I think to myself if my largest problem is the fact that I’m having dreams about my ex, I’m in pretty damn good shape.

Once home, I crawl into bed with M, inhale his scent for a moment before gently kissing him on the cheek and telling him the obvious - that I’m home.

He rolls over and throws an arm around my waist, nuzzling my neck. “I love you,” he murmurs.

And yeah, it is confirmed. Pretty damn good shape.