There is another part of me that wants to meet her and commiserate, like two weary war vets, compare battle-scars, engage in friendly one-upmanship and offer sympathy. I want to find solace in failing to get him to love me. I want to grab her arm in recognition and say, he did that to me too! And laugh about it, which would take the sting out of the humiliation. I want to get drunk with her, sweep her hair over her shoulders and tell her she’s beautiful and she’ll find someone else, that she doesn’t need him and neither do I. I want to get angry on her behalf and call him a cunt.
