SELF-ADMINISTERED AFTERCARE

By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020

Warning: If you don't like reading transgender or related fiction, then stop reading now.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

RT

MY WEEKEND

I woke up wanting to kill someone.

I lay on my bed in my bedroom in my townhouse. I was a bit disoriented. At least my hands and feet were finally free. I felt sweaty and dirty. My face seemed heavy, as though it was covered in paste. My mouth was dry and my tongue rough. My chest ached; my nipples were extremely sensitive against the cotton sheets, the skin around my pecs was tender. I flexed; at least I did not seem to have any broken bones.

My groin ached. I raised the sheets and noticed paint on my fingernails. I flung the sheets off the bed. Paint on my toenails too. My legs were marked up with tattoos. A quick lick and rub with a finger suggested a permanent marker, not tattoo ink. My dick was covered in bright orange blaze ink.

My blood pressure started surging.

I got out of bed, went into the bathroom, and looked in the mirror. Normally, I stand 6'2", weigh 200 pounds, have dark brown hair, and am blessed (because of many hours at the gym) with a body that can press 225 lbs easily twenty times and squat 360 for several reps each week. I take pride in my looks and shape.

I was shocked when I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was now a glittery strawberry blond. There was makeup on my eyes, eyelids, cheeks, and lips. I already mentioned the nail polish stuff. There were colorful flowers, ribbons, and bows marked all over my body. On my upper back was written, "Andrea's Bitch". On my lower back there was a tramp stamp: "Little Miss Macho Man". There were various and sundry markings elsewhere, all over my body.

Me: an extremely fit 27-year-old man who now looked stupid and silly.

And who had been put through hell this past weekend.

And who was now quite pissed off.

-----000-----

My fiancée and I were scheduled to get married next weekend. Andrea was very much the woman of my dreams. She was a neat little brunette, as Raymond Chandler might write. We met during our last year at university. Things clicked right away. Here we were, five years later, ready to be married in seven days.

We had never lived together in a formal sense. Each of us stayed often at the other's over a weekend or any given weeknight. Ours was an exciting sex life; do it here, do it there, do it almost anywhere. And there was some minor role-playing and very tame bondage. We alternated her being the top, my being the top, and back and forth. This past weekend, our last unmarried weekend, was slated for her-on-top time. It was also her bachelorette party weekend.

To avoid conflict but to also keep a promise, I agreed to show up early in the morning at her place for her-on-top quickie session. Typically, this might involve my being tied to the four corners of her bed and then tickled and teased into a blissful orgasm after 59 minutes. We had a firm rule: 60 minutes period. Never a second more. It was a matter of trust that had never been broken.

Never. Been. Broken.

Ever.

I had shown up on time at her lovely condo in an upscale neighbourhood. Her parents financially supported her. Andrea was not spoilt but was 'well maintained'. She got along well with her parents, whom I thought the world of. They had founded and ran a successful chain of sports stores.

Andrea gave me a sly look and crocked her finger, leading me toward her bed. Some minor teasing and foreplay later, I was tied per normal.

Well, almost per normal. Instead of pantyhose, a bathrobe belt, or some other improvised binding, she had me in leather straps, real BDSM straps. They were new. Ok, I thought, whatever.

Her fingers raced across my body; I quickly forgot about the straps. My big guy proved his name and got big. Andrea surprised me by tightly tying a narrow strap around his base. He would stay up and not go down. I asked her what she was doing. She merely crawled up my chest, put a finger to my lips, and then showed me a lockable penis gag. This too was new.

"No, absolutely not," I loudly said. She smiled, ignored me and my shaking head, and, despite my struggles, put the gag in my mouth.

"Listen up, Superman," she seductively said. "You're at my mercy and you," she kissed my forehead, "are going to be the star attraction at my bachelorette party." Her face was filled with glee and mirth. I shook my head 'no'. "Yes, yes, yes," she replied. 'No, no, no' I shook back.

"You must behave, little man," she said in a mocking tone and flicked her fingers against my balls. Not funny; that hurt.

I shook my head 'no' again and again and again.

The doorbell rang.

-----000-----

I glared at her and willed her to let me go this instant. She smiled and cheerfully exclaimed that her friends must be here already. I pulled on my straps; they held. I struggled to escape; they still held. Andrea laughed and left the room.

She returned with Betty, Eve, Brenda, Susie, and Mary. They broke out in laughter. "There's Mister Macho. Look at that tiny prick!" Their insults were relentless. I didn't really care about what they were saying (and I knew my six inches was more than enough for nearly every vagina in the world) in so much as I was really mad about being displayed so humiliatingly by Andrea.

Mad.

And they started drinking. They sang pop songs that I hated. They told stories about all their ex-boyfriends who had small dicks and asked Andrea why she would marry me given the size of my 'tiny' dick. I didn't care about size jokes. I was very angry that they started spewing and spilling beer on me in disdain and derision.

Very angry.

And then it got worse. They started playing with me, teasing me, pulling me, pushing me, prodding me, poking me, tickling me, scratching me. I didn't like this and had never signed up for this. I buckled and strained against the unwanted assaults. My shouts were muffled by the gag. I was getting really fucking pissed off and, desperately fighting my bindings, tried to stop the witches. I couldn't.

Really fucking pissed off.

After a few hours, more of Andrea's friends showed up. My ordeal simply commenced afresh with the new faces and new fingers delivering the same old unpleasant torture. I was sweating in resistance and working feverishly to get out of the bondage. And then I really tried. With all my (considerable) might, I thrust my hips and pelvis up, jerked my body to the left and right, and drew on every muscle in my core to gain freedom.

Andrea, Sonya, and Vickie were thrown off me and respectively landed on the floor, against a dresser, and against a wall. Andrea complained about her sore hip. Sonya loudly shouted "ouch!" and put her hand to her head: there was blood on it. Helen reached for her neck to smooth over the pain. All three turned to look at me. The menace in their eyes was obvious.

Sonya spoke first: "You're gonna regret that."

Vickie spoke second: "You really think you're that macho, eh?"

Andrea stared at me, shook her head disapprovingly, and hissed at me, "You are so going to be the centre of attention at my party."

-----000-----

I will spare you all of the details. Suffice it to say, Andrea and her harridans called up reinforcements: more women, then more beer, then the boyfriends. I knew well many of the latter. My struggles never ceased and in fact only grew more violent. The women gave way to the men who saw my struggles as aggression to be beaten. Competitive masculinity. They took over the abuse on the bed. At least they didn't touch my dick; the girls had flicked it relentlessly.

And someone at some point decided that it would be a good idea to drug me with something. I was largely, at best, in and out of it after that, until I woke up wanting to kill someone.

I wandered through my house. Everything seemed to be in place. Andrea had a key and knew the alarm code. She must have allowed some of her friends to drop me off. I do not know how I came to be undressed. She may have done it here or elsewhere. I hoped no one else had undressed me. But then I realized that everyone had probably seen me like this.

I decided to shower. Most of the so-called tattooing faded lightly; that assured me that it would all eventually come off. I was glad there was none on my face. I used a scrub brush to get the makeup off my face. After drying off, I got some paint thinner from the basement and removed the paint from my toenails and fingernails.

My phone was on my desk. I checked it and saw that I had 174 messages. I scrolled through them. Many were snippets of video from last night. Several different people had sent them to me, and I was but one of innumerable addressees in each email's 'To' box. I sat on the edge of my bed and watched the videos.

They filled in some of the many blanks of my memory of last night and, I must admit, made me want to go to a gun store and shoot nearly all of my so-called friends, their girlfriends (many of whom Andrea had invited to the bachelorette party), the entire bridal party, and all of my groomsmen.

And, of course, Andrea.

The videos hurt. I had no memory of being put in the trunk of a car and driven to Andrea's parents' home. But I recognized the large basement playroom they had. Andrea had said that her parents were sponsoring her party. Knowing them, I doubted that they had envisioned such treatment being rendered unto their future son-in-law.

Which video pushed me over the edge? Plainly I was passed out when Helen put the hood on me. Simone was the one who decided it would be funny that my dick be coloured; all of the bridesmaids coloured it. Erin and Wayne had put the skirt on me. Bill and Julie put the dildo next to the crack of my ass. Desdemona and Trudy pretended to shove it in and out. Ken seemed to have farted in my face - - - repeatedly. Laurie, Grace, and Marta were responsible for the makeup. Debbie wielded the whip, but Ivey egged her on. Andrew poured the vodka down the hole of my gag. Fred too had whipped me. Steve had wiped his dick out and put it by my mouth; thank God he hadn't put it in. The ordeal went on and on, video after video.

That got me thinking; what had happened to me that was not captured on video?

Something else was on a video. Roger had sent one entitled "Pre-honeymoon fun?" I watched it. Andrea was standing over me, drunk, laughing, shouting out to the Village People: "Macho, macho, macho man, you are hardly a macho man!" She sang this as Greg, one of her former boyfriends, had his arm around her waist. In other video, this one made by Paula, I could see Greg and Andrea embracing in the kitchen.

Andrea had often used my computer when she stayed here. Her user login and password for her email account was saved. I examined her emails. She had received many of the same emails as I had. She had also received many more: more shameful videos, more ribald commentary, more scathing remarks.

There were two from Greg in her 'Inbox'; he seemed to be saying he was available if she wanted to dump me. In her 'Sent' box was her reply to the first one. Andrea had written Greg, "Are you better than the man of my dreams?" It contained a picture of me, held unconscious in an embarrassing position by Monica and Rebecca, with Sonya smiling as she covered my dick in whip cream. Greg's reply to her reply was simply a map link to his apartment. Her reply was an eyebrow-raising, questioning emoji.

Incredibly, not one single email ever considered whether I would react other than positively to the events of the weekend. Indeed, not one asked whether I even wanted to be in the humiliating positions that I was in.

My computer beeped: 'You have mail!' It was from Andrea:

"Hi sweetie, hope u slept well last nite. My party was soooo much fun! You were great. I cant wait till nxt wkend. I am so look fwd to being mrs robbie dillon. U rock! Luv u and rember Im at mom dads till wedding. Have great biz trip this week and rember to be at church on time. Luvs hugs kisses --- A."

-----000-----

I wandered downstairs to the kitchen and made myself a sandwich. I looked around my house. Thankfully, whoever had dropped me off in my bed had not disturbed anything in the house. Everything was as it had been left Saturday morning.

My computer beeped again. I finished my sandwich and then checked my mail. It was from Stacey, my boss. I had a good job in a small software company, made a low six-figure salary (awesome for someone my age), and enjoyed the people I worked with.

Well, I had had a good job. I suspect that someone had done a blanket group email to every contact I had. Stacey had been sent several videos. Stacey sent me a single one: I was summarily dismissed because of egregious off-duty conduct.

I forwarded a copy of every goddamn video, email, tweet, snap, post, and balloon to my email account.

I sent an email reply to Andrea:

"Yo A. Can't wait for nxt Sat. Aint nothing gonna be same after! R"

MY WEDDING

My lawyer told me that things had gone exceptionally well at my wedding.

The process servers had worn tuxedos and had presented each defendant with a beautiful envelope as they entered the church. The lettering was gold, the parchment thick, and the instructions were to open when requested --- and not a moment before!

A few guests were miffed to have not received such a beautiful envelope. They would soon learn it simply meant that they would not be sued.

Yes, I had been very busy between weekends.

-----000-----

First, I had retained counsel. I had come across Jenny during one of my small start-up ventures. She was a local practitioner who could handle most mom-and-pop size litigation. She reviewed all the evidence I had been able to muster in the few days before the wedding.

She advised me on the merits of the following torts: breach of promise, assault, battery, intentional infliction of emotional distress, unlawful confinement, invasion of privacy, interference with economic relations, slander, libel, and several more.

Use them all, I instructed.

She also advised me whom to sue. I didn't give a rat's ass about any of my so-called friends anymore. It only took one smile on their face on a video or in a picture and that made them an active party to my suffering.

Sue them all, I instructed.

She also advised me concerning the damages I would claim. Pain and suffering were one thing. The loss of my job was another. The ruination of my immediate future was yet one more.

General and punitive damages from them all, I instructed.

Andrea was part of 'them all'. Her envelope was delivered by a process server once the congregation was sitting in their pews. Her mother and father were with her in the ready room when the process server got there. They were served too; they had sponsored the bachelorette party. "It's from Robbie, for you, for this special day," the process server said cheerfully.

Jenny told me that she had sat near the back on the groom's side when the priest emerged to say that he had received a strange request from me earlier this week, and that he would now ask, per my request, that everyone open their envelopes now. Jenny said that she had never seen the mood in a room change so quickly. The bubbly anticipation of a joyous wedding gave way to denials, shouting, recrimination, swearing, blasphemy (in a church!), and endless bickering.

Jenny paid particular attention to the door to the ready room. The priest had entered it immediately after reading the text of my request to the congregation. He was in the room for several minutes. He left with a stern look on his face and went directly to his office. Jenny never saw him again that day. Andrea's parents raced out of the ready room and out of the church.

-----000-----

Second, I had shuttered this part of my life.

I got a hold of a locksmith for the townhouse, changed the locks, and then changed the alarm code.

I purchased packing boxes and packed all of my possessions. I contacted a real estate company and arranged that they move everything out of my place and into storage on the Saturday morning of the wedding and then list the townhouse for sale. I didn’t have many possessions. The house was a starter home, an investment. I would get some of my money out of it.

I caused --- in person or by proxy --- my identification address to change. I anticipated that the house would sell (in any event, I would not be in the country) and that for standing purposes, I would still require a permanent address in this country. So, I found a firm that assisted in such matters. Jenny would know how to contact me and could honestly say that I still maintained a permanent residence in this judicial jurisdiction.

I switched all of my accounts with everyone (e.g. insurance, phone, etc.) from the townhouse to the new address. I applied for an emergency amendment to my health card and driver’s licence; the new cards arrived Thursday. I also amended my records to make prominent my middle name, ‘Charles’. No more Robbie Dillon; there’s just Charlie Dillon now.

I commenced the doing of the innumerable, miscellaneous other things that are necessary when moving away for a long time. I arranged to store my Honda. I notified the state that I would be absent during an election cycle. And so on and so on.

I chose to do these things, not because they were easy, but because they were needed, because their doing served to measure the best of my energy and skill, because those needs were ones that I was willing to embrace, ones I was unwilling to ignore, and ones which I intended to accomplish!

I love JFK motivational speeches!

-----000-----

In retrospect, I suppose I did all these things in order to escape back to a happier time and place.

I had left home at 15; the domestic situation had been “in flux”, one might say. I had to find my own living arrangements, scrape up enough money to buy necessities, exercise frugality on an unimaginable scale, and live from nickel on the sidewalk to dime on the floor. I had managed to finish high school my own way and had been accepted into university. I had struggled to finance school but succeeded. I had graduated with little debt, a creditable reputation, and good prospects.

After university and just before joining Stacey’s software company, I ‘gapped’ for a year in Europe. And there had been fewer places more motivating and relaxing than Baden-Baden.

During the week, I purchased an open-ended ticket to Frankfurt. I flew Friday afternoon and arrived Saturday morning German time. I splurged and got a premium economy seat. I railed from Frankfurt down to Baden-Baden and stayed at a very small, very low-cost pension (the only small, lowcost one in Baden-Baden).

So it was that, by the time of my early afternoon wedding, I was already settled in on Hermannstrasse and was getting ready to go to Leo’s Café.

My new phone buzzed. The only person who had my new personal phone number and new personal email address was Jenny, my lawyer. She sent me a picture of the church, the chaos, the carnage.

I laughed.

MY MOVING ON

I slowly ambled down the fußgängerstrasse to Leo’s. The cobblestones were damp; there was a light rain. I didn’t slip, though once upon a time I had. The posters in the beauty and skin product stores that had once featured topless women were gone. Germany may not have been at the forefront of ‘MeToo’ or other such movements, but it was responsive to and sensitive to the greater phenomenon. The topless posters were long gone.

I walked past the daily restaurant at which, many years ago, I had ordered the following meal: blattspinat mit prochiertes ei! I had thought it would be a ‘Hungry Man’s Breakfast’, North American style, but my elementary German had failed me. I had thought my German to be adequate. Yet the puddle of liquified spinach on top of the three poached eggs had disgusted me. The seminal lesson: I had reminded myself of the imperative to speak English in Germany. That was my memory of that restaurant.

And I still hate liquified spinach.

Anyway, a rain slowly drizzled, the light faded, and the air chilled. And so I walked to Leo’s.

-----000-----

It had been years. I did not expect to see Stephanie there, in her white blouse and black dress. That remained a silly hope; a friendly, care-free waitress who after all these years would remember a nice but slightly awkward North American. Her smile. Her friendly laugh. Her bright eyes.

She had been a waitress years ago, and whenever I had gone to Leo’s, I had always sat in her section. Would she be there now? Would she remember me? I had lain in her bed. The innumerable mornings I had awoken to her wide, beaming smile. The delight of her wide eyes as I had marveled her with some western idiocy. Raven-haired, ample bosom, a strong back: these superficial memories I always cast aside in order to remember her delicate yet clear, confident voice.

I made my way up the four steps and opened the door.

The noise overwhelmed me. I could not comprehend the melange of different voices. It was too noisy, too loud, and too busy, for me to comprehend what was being said by the many people swirling about inside the café.

There were the usual slinkily dressed young women looking for their version of a male fantasy. Did they really want to find the man-of-theirdreams or were they just looking for a good fuck? Could they even tell the difference? Who am I, as a man, to distinguish one woman’s fantasy from another’s?

There were, outnumbering the women, the usual German slime-boys, wearing their brightly coloured jackets and sporting their 4-day faux beards and overpowering everyones’ sense of smell with their tremendous overspraying of cologne. They were just looking for a good fuck. No difference to them! And I knew what their fantasies were.

I walked in and squeezed myself into a place at the bar. There was a Berlin slime-boy to my left and a down-and-out Bulgarian to my right. The bartender asked, and I ordered a pale blonde. My life has been filled by pale blondes.

I looked around. No Stephanie.

I imagined where she might be. By now? Married. A mother. Lovely children. Walking them by the hand to a kindergarten every damp, chilly morning. A warm apartment or small house in some kleine ‘dorf’ or ‘heim’. The charm of her smile, as she turned her pretty head to smile at me as I came home, as she stood over the sink or the stove. The tattoo over her appendix scar still vibrant and snazzy: “Kraft Und Freiheit”, with a sword and a feather underlining the words. Her husband wondering, ‘why did she get that?’

She had seized me so many years ago. Not just physically. She had opened my immature eyes to a broader vision and a higher vantage point. Beer? No: “try this wine”. Meat and potatoes? No: “schnitzel und spaetzle”. Her attitude in bed had been astonishing: “Don’t move! See me. Feel me. Follow me.” Being a proto-typical, young North American male, I had been shocked at the thought of a woman on top. But Stephanie had opened my eyes to a world that I had never imagined. Not just sexually, but more comprehensively.

She knew stuff. “What do you know about life???!!!" she would scream at me as I had infuriated her once and once again with my Neanderthal North American attitude. I grew up fast under her reign or partnership, as I preferred to label it. I learned so much from her. There is a part of me that feels that I never equally reciprocated.

Because I had not yet learnt. Because I had not been her equal. Because I had not the skills and ability to be her partner.

And so I had eventually left her with the absolutely logical but irresponsibly stupid words, “Right woman, wrong time.”

Fuck. I was heartless bastard back then.

And stupid. Don’t forget ‘stupid’.

-----000-----

I didn’t see Stephanie anywhere at Leo’s. I didn’t ask any of the staff about her; it had been years. I didn’t look at any of the other waitresses for I only looked for Stephanie. I tried to imagine her bending over a table, her taking a rag out of her apron to wipe the table, and her brushing off the flirtatious but seemingly innocuous pickup lines from the slimers. I couldn’t see her.

She was forever gone.

Over a Shiraz (or five), I silently wished her well and told her that I regretted not being the ‘right man, right time’ for her. My eyes grew tears. The tears grew up. The tears left my eyes. Yep, I wept a bit. I don’t know whether the other patrons had noticed.

Fuck them.

They’re all slimers and sluts anyway.

I sincerely wished that they would one day realize what they had been, how stupid they had been.

As they took their kids, by hand, to a kindergarten, years from now.

-----000-----

I leveraged my skills into several new ventures, business and social.

Under my new re-jigged name, business prospered. If Robbie Dillon had been the butt of humour or scandal back home, then Charlie Dillon meant nothing he was a blank canvas. And, in the modern world below the surface of huge corporations, names meant little and skills meant all. Fortunately, I had skills.

The internet is a great leveller. Just do 30 seconds of Zoom or Skype or Facetime and then show your skills. People generally don’t care about presentation over the long run; rather, they simply want a façade and a product, with emphasis on ‘product’. This environment worked to my advantage, given my circumstances. And my skills.

Contacts. Contracts. Compensation.

I was pretty fracking good at what I did. I don’t think any of my new clients knew or, if they knew, cared about my history. Charlie Dillon did great work and got paid for it. It took some time, but eventually, the money started to roll in, and I could lease that 300 convertible that I had never thought I could get.

But had always dreamt of. When I had been younger.

Under my new name, I found, explored, and vacated pseudo-Stephanies. I came to realize, after several instances, that I had been chasing a memory of a fondness for a recollection of a fleeting grasp into someone else’s humanity from long ago. A piece of tail is no substitute for a piece of brain. The replacements had been ‘fine’, but had never personified that which I logically knew that I could never find again.

It took several (dozen) non-self-inflicted orgasms for me to realize that neither Stephanie nor I were to ever be again. No amount of fantasizing over who-knows-how-many Shiraz could resuscitate the past. I was older, wiser, and, frankly, less ‘potent’ than I had once been.

And she was forever gone.

And I was, now, in a much more mature and appreciative manner, fine with that.

I finished my last Shiraz and paid my bill.

I left Leo’s. It was still raining.

MY RETURN

Roger had been the first to settle. He had always been a pragmatic bastard. He had owned his first own business at age 21. He explored different business ventures and was very entrepreneurial. My statement of claim had asked him for $40,000 in general damages, and he offered to settle at $30,000. Quickly.

And he provided lots of video evidence.

Jenny had been surprised that a named defendant did not bother to file a statement of defence but to merely negotiate down. I told her about Roger; he was a different breed of cat. I respected him and his acumen. Plus, he too was a Patriots fans.

We settled as he proposed. He had not been my primary target. However, his provision of additional evidence assisted my case immediately.

Jenny told me that Wayne counter-claimed against Ivy, who issued a third party claim against Andrea’s parents who in turn sued their daughter and the many other defendants. This pattern of claim, defence, counter-claim, and third party claim had continued for several months. And so on, and so on.

As the primary plaintiff, I didn’t care. The evidence was overwhelmingly in my favour and I was more than content to let those treacherous bastards and bitches squabble at their lawyers’ billing rates amongst each other. Jenny and I discussed the pattern many times; she didn’t bill me for these calls as she put them down to what she called ‘code 999’, an in-office party billing code.

-----000-----

Like most lawsuits, mine never went to court. The bastards and bitches settled. Stacey and my old company settled for $150k for unlawful dismissal, and that was just the tip of the iceberg. Jenny had kept me informed as to how things were going.

It seemed that all of my so-called friends were intent on pointing their fingers at one another. They legally bickered amongst themselves. They chewed up legal fees amongst themselves. They socially fought with and then distanced themselves from each other. They were no longer friends, I presumed.

I had no interest in keeping up with this gossip from far away. A weekend in Basel. A long weekend in Strasbourg. A day trip to Vianden’s chateau just for the hell of it. And a pseudo-Stephanie here and there. Why the frack should I care about people far away who had not cared about me?

I didn’t care about them.

Fuck ‘em.

And they settled, and settled, and settled. The money rolled in. It does not seem like a lot, but when one sues more than 50 people for more than $20,000 each, it adds up. To this day, I still forget the names of each of the people who settled with me and the amount that they settled for. The main point is that they settled with me; I did not have to go to court, thereby minimizing my legal fees.

In addition to the amounts that I was making on-line, the settlements allowed me to pay off my 300 in short order.

I felt that I was back!

-----000-----

Business eventually took me back home; a growing company insisted that I consult in person. I booked the first class return ticket without any second thoughts. Even if this had been a self-paid tour flight, I would have gone first class. I had that much money.

The only person from the old days with whom I was still in contact was Roger. We had befriended one another in our teenage years and had largely grown up together. Although we supported different football teams, he always struck me as being a relatively pragmatic and very intelligent fellow.

I flipped him a quick email explaining that I would be in town and would not mind seeing him. Despite my having sued him, he had always seemed and now reminded me that he was very much an approachable guy. He quickly responded to my email message about my visit and suggested that we meet at his restaurant. As I have mentioned earlier, he was an entrepreneurial fellow. He knew how to make money. He was into various different business ventures, some good, some bad. That was Roger.

I walked in to his restaurant expecting a lukewarm reception. I received exactly that.

In retrospect, I suppose our relationship was irrevocably altered by my suing him. However, as I’ve said, he was a pragmatic guy, and probably saw my returning to our city as both a crisis and an opportunity. Roger was Roger; I knew Roger. And I accepted him for who he was.

After some tedious but necessary small talk about football, the United States women’s national soccer team, and Washington politics, we cut to the chase and spoke about my litigation.

“Good facts win cases,” he beamed, “and so I settled quickly.” He sipped his beer and said, “Robbie, I am very sorry for letting that stuff happen to you. I should have stepped in and either confirmed that this was what you wanted or stopped others from mistreating you. Either way, I own my fault, my mistake. I let you down and I blame myself for going along with it all. I am sorry.”

He looked at me a certain way. I had known him a very long time. I accepted his apology with the same sincerity that he had given it.

Silently, we chinked our glasses and put that specific past into the distant, unspeakable past. Between him and I, the litigation and strain of Andrea’s bachelorette party would only be a source of jokes and friendly ribbing. Roger was a good man. He and I could move on.

-----000-----

“What have you heard of the others?” he asked.

All of my old friends? All of my old drinking buddies? All of my own flag football teammates? All of my own university classmates?

“Nothing. Don’t care. Don’t know. I can’t even be bothered to say ‘Fuck them’.” I swigged a big shot.

“Andrea?” he asked.

I stared at him in response.

He put his mug down and stared at it. “ The litigation destroyed her relationship with her parents. They disowned her. I understand that they have nothing to do with her anymore. Her mom, Esther, was supremely pissed off at her.”

He paused and sipped his Stella. “Please trust me when I say this, she deeply regrets roping you up on the bed. And everything that followed.”

“Why?” I replied. “Did she regret fucking up her life or mine?”

Roger opened his arms in forgiveness and said, “Does it matter?” I didn’t answer him.

“I understand,” he continued, “that her parents disowned her. You surely remember that they used to support her financially. All those dinners on Sunday nights? The Thanksgivings? The big spontaneous ‘let’s get together and have a fun parties’? The perfect daughter? The perfect student? And you, the future perfect son-in-law? Yeah, her parents shut her down hard on all counts.”

He chugged the remainder of his Stella. “For a long time, she was unemployable in the city. Her bachelorette party was notorious. So was her reputation. She got fired from that accountancy job. She struggled to find any other work.”

He stared at his empty glass. He waved a hand to catch a waitress’ eye. It was his restaurant. They’d notice him and respond instantly.

“People make mistakes, my friend, people make mistakes.” An arm had a hand that held a beer that slid in front of Roger. “Thanks,” he said to the waitress. He then suddenly moved to get up.

“Look at her,” he said to me, pointing to the waitress. He left the table.

-----000-----

It was Andrea.

There she was, once again, standing right in front of me. I think she was as surprised as I was.

Her hair cascaded down her neck and across her shoulders. I thought I saw a few gray strands. Her eyebrows were still thick and bushy. Her eyes looked dull and gray, in contrast to the bright and wonderful colours of which I remembered them. She did not only have crows feet, she also had crows shins and crows thighs. There were visible lines in her face dripping from her nose past the tips of her mouth. There was no smile; her countenance expressed a terse, grim disposition.

Her hands gripping Roger’s beer seemed to be more muscular and sinewy than they had been, when I had been her fiancé. Her forearms and biceps were very well toned, probably because of repetitive waitress activity. The T-shirt that she wore bore the name of Robbie’s restaurant. The shirt did not disguise to me the fact that her once pert breasts had sagged.

She now owned a muffin top. Her once thin waist was now thicker. The jeans were just as tight as ever. However, now they simply exaggerated the ripples in her upper thighs. This waitress wore Walmart running shoes, unlike my once-beloved Andrea, who had always worn expensive sandals or perfect three inch heels.

I quickly concluded to myself that the two years since our wedding — wrong: her bachelorette party — had not been kind to her. She looked like a tired waitress and well-worn second-hand mattress.

I once loved her? I had never loved her just for her looks. Although they had been fantastic and especially appealing to me, they were always secondary to her brain. I had loved talking to her, bantering with her, and in a friendly manner bickering with her.

The first words off her tongue derailed my train of thought:

“I am so, so sorry.” She began to cry. She turned and started to walk away.

I looked at her as she walked away, I thought of Stephanie, and I made a decision.

END

By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020