SMUG
Standing in my now-ex-boyfriend Rich's apartment, I grinned in what I claimed to be my secret spot. First window, second floor, looking just beyond the tree branches that hung low in front of my sight. Where I once saw my sweetheart yelling on his phone or sitting in parked cars filled with smoke, I, now, saw a grown man reduced to nothing but a statistic. He never made a fuss. He didn't cop an attitude. He was disturbingly quiet, but you could hear his loud rueing.
My eyes kept darting between the police siren lights below and a line of birds perched atop the townhouse across the driveway.
"We know everything," they seemed to say. But the look I gave them could have crumbled stone. It was my special day, I was happy, and nobody, especially not a group of guilt-tripping birds, was going to spoil my good mood.
"Paul?" Matt said from down the stairs. "They need Ginny's number, and I don't have it."
"I'm not close with Rich's sister. Besides, I don't have a cell phone, so I don't have it on me." I said. I didn't turn around. I liked Matt, and I'm sure he was a good roommate to Rich, but I don't think he'd react well to my smile. "I guess he'll be spending the night at the station." I could hear Matt begin to say something, but he held his tongue. He was Mr. Nice Guy, really, and I pitied the fact that this had to ruin his day. The other two guys Rich lived with were just coming home as this was happening. I didn't see them except from my window. I walked up the stairs rather leizurely, like a madame in a 1940s musical; the world my oyster. I didn't bring much over this time. A change of clothes, my laptop, just enough gas money in my wallet to get home.
There was something rotten about Rich and I from the very start, and I was lucky to even get a toothbrush in the bathroom, nonetheless any clothes. He gave me a corner on the floor beside what became my side of the bed. My bag was light, when I walked downstairs, where I found the landlord puttering through the kitchen cabinets, presumably looking for some sort of dime bag. The other tenants sat in the den, discussing what had just happened. Some of them were shaking; maybe they had something to hide, I dunno.
The all gave me a look that seemed to whisper, "What have you done? Did you know this was happening? Is he taking the blame for you? What's been going on?" My keys jingled in my hands and my hair was a mess. I could have just strolled by them to the slider door and driven home. I had already been questioned. I had no connection to this place anymore, but I felt like I owed them some relief.
"I was the one who tipped off your landlord. Rich never hit me. I wasn't there where he got the stuff. I found him in the bathroom. I had no idea," I said, matter-of-fact-ly. Each sentence came out of my mouth the same way a list of rules would: Do not walk on the courtyard past 11 P.M.; The pool is not for children younger than 8 with adult supervision; please return hotel key upon checking out; do not leave lines of cocaine in your boyfriend's bathroom; do not place dime bags in his top dresser drawer; do not leave an anonymous message on his landlord's answering machine; do not get into your car with a smug grin on your face; do not drive home and leave him sitting in a local jail cell; do not feel proud of yourself. Do not feel proud of yourself.
