About four months after B. and I separated, he asked if I could meet him for dinner. He had some news. The "news" was that he would more or less be living in Paris for the next 12-24 months, overseeing a European company purchase made by his company. For anyone not in the know, B. and I parted on excellent terms and have remained friends. I was thrilled for him, but couldn’t resist a small tease.
“So you’re saying that if I had hung on for four more months, I could be a freelance writer living in Paris?” I asked, feigning dismay.
Never one to resist a friendly jab of his own, B. leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Karma’s a bitch.”
Fast forward three years and we’re out having dinner, when the conversation turns to dating. It took awhile, but we've arrived at the point where we can laugh together about the trials of dating. At the time, B. was seeing a woman who sang jazz on the side, and they had recently returned from one of her “gigs” in Asheville.
“Oh my God—enough already,” I said, throwing down my fork.
B. looked startled. “What?”
I ticked items off on my fingers. “You live in a super-cool renovated loft. You work in Paris. You’re dating a jazz singer. Enough already. We all get it… You’re winning the divorce.” I rolled my eyes.
B. laughed. “Oh sugar, it’s not a competition and no I’m not.”
“Don’t placate me,” I said. “You so are.”
B. thought for a moment and then grinned. “Yeah, I guess I kind of am.”
Anyone who knows me, knows my competitive spirit. But if I have to lose, I'm more than happy to do it to someone like B. May the best man win, indeed.