After our divorce, he still wanted to get back at me. For whatever reason he still felt like hurting me would make him feel better. Still thought the abuse of my emotions held the key to understanding his own ego. With the passage of many hours, many days, many months, many years, his heartbroken vengeance was still being exercised.

Oftentimes he brought his current company, women who would look underdressed at a prostitute’s convention, into my office under the guise of reasonable and acceptable business; a charade that was thinner than red or blue lines or Stephen King stories. He never asked to see me directly, but he always asked if I was in, leaning over the counter looking for me with an undeserved sense of entitlement while his lady friend picked the semen out of her teeth with a Virginia Slim.
Other times he would drive slowly past my home in his late model Taurus. The windows deliberately down, regardless of the weather, playing one of our songs. I never had the same fondness for Bonnie Raitt or Gary Clark Jr. when I heard it from a battered Ford stereo system. Those memorable melodies of memories faded into enormous expanses of emptiness. It’s incredible how beautiful songs can be transformed into something ugly when they are driven around my malice.
But above all, over every one of the other activities in his depraved mind, his favorite was posting blatantly visible pictures of his fabulously fabricated life onto facebook. Images meticulously manipulated, designed to portray a sense of stability and happiness, always seemed to ooze insecurity and distrust. They were a front. And a poor one at that. I saw right through his attempts to appease himself by his passive aggression and cold, calculating mind. Photos of brunch scones and mimosas, half attended soccer matches, and boating on the Mediterranean with bulimics were the best attacks his feeble mind could concoct.

All this shit made me laugh. I knew I was right all along, and all these desperate attempts thrown in my direction seemed to solidify how I felt about our 14 year marriage, and I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. These instances helped to reinforce why I was always better than him, and enlightened me to the sort of corners he had pushed my soul into.

Nice try asshole. It ain’t gonna work Keith.