Witches’ night out
Posted Saturday, June 14 2014 at 01:00
She needn’t even have called me; we still met before she took off. She dressed carefully, even more carefully than she does when she is going out with me. I watched her, speechless, because I didn’t know what to say.
She called me just to tell me she was going for a girls’ night out. I don’t understand why she told me, besides to simply torture me, because she certainly does not need my permission to go out with any one, least of all her friends. For whatever reason.
She needn’t even have called me; we still met before she took off. She dressed carefully, even more carefully than she does when she is going out with me. I watched her, speechless, because I didn’t know what to say. I did not disapprove. No. I have no problem with her girls’ nights and she knows it. But this time, she seemed to either be using it as some form of torture tactic, or she was keeping something from me.
As she carefully applied her makeup, and put on a pair of boots I had never seen before, I dared to inquire what the occasion was this time. She meets the same people almost every day. I was curious as to what qualified this particular night. Obtusely, she answered, “Girl stuff”.
Anything wrong?” “No, everything is super! Where will you be hanging out?” “Allover,” she said. Clearly, she was not in a very talkative mood, which was in sharp contrast to the glimmer she had in her eye, that look of someone who is going to do something inadvisable, and they are looking forward to it. Her vague answers were worse than no answer at all. I texted one of the boyfriends to her friends, asking him if he knew what was going on.
He was even more bewildered than I was. Apparently, his girl had last talked to him three hours ago, and had told him not to bother calling because she was going to leave her phone behind. She hadn’t even bothered to tell him about the Girls’ Night thing. No much help there.
In one final attempt to get something out of her, I asked her if she wanted me to drop her anywhere. She looked at me with a look very close to pity, squinted her eyes, and slowly shook her head. Dead end.
Just then, a car pulled up outside. She looked at me like one looks at someone they don’t expect to see again, pecked me, and said, “I guess that’s me. Don’t wait up for me”. Again, I tried, “Can I pick you up?”.
This time, she didn’t even bother to answer. She walked out of the house, got into the car with about five other girls already in it, and they drove off. Those witches didn’t even acknowledge me; it was like they hadn’t seen me. There was nothing more I could do. I planned to call her in a few-hours’ time, see if she was still on planet Earth with us.
But, then, I saw her handbag. She never leaves her handbag behind, this was no accident. And her phone. There was something going on here, something that must have made the coven convene.
She showed up about 48 hours later. By then, I had gone from curiosity, to anger to worrying to frustration to panic, to missing her terribly to pure fury, and back to feeling nothing. When she walked in, I realised I had missed her. I didn’t want to know where she had been or what she had done. She was back, that is what mattered. If her intention was to make me realise what she meant to me, she couldn’t have devised a more effective scheme.