Hours passed since that night in the bar when I drunkenly told my 'family' I am in fact, married. And have been for quite a number of countless years. After I let 'it' slip, I don't think anyone knew what to say. Not that I expected or wanted them to say anything. In retrospect, I'm glad they didn't. I would have had a hell of a lot of explaining to do. I didn't stay too long after that, a couple of glasses of scotch later and I was more than willing to leave, go crawl in a hole, and never come out.
The questions came the day after, convenient, seeing as I was nursing one hell of a hangover. Wasn't my greatest idea to get trashed, in hope I'd forget the previous night in it's enirity. Subconsciously, I knew it wouldn't work. But nothing ventured, nothing gained.
The two Advil I'd taken a few hours before were doing nothing, so I wasn't really in an argumentative mood, so I answered the questions as quickly and directly as I could. Of course, I was hesitant to tell them he was just another man in my life Christina had managed to sink her nails into. I don't think I'll ever meet a woman who's happy and willing to tell you she lost her man to her slut of a sister. She's got one hell of a track record for that. Yes, very loyal.
Scotty and Vera primarily asked the questions. No surprises there. I don't think I'll ever understand their fascination with my private life. It's almost as if they expect me get all 'dolled' up, strap on a pair of Jimmy Choos' and head off for some sexy rendezvous with some middle-aged high powered business executive after hours. Maybe I should just tell them that one day just to see the looks on their face. I'll make a mental note to bring my camera in that day.
The interrogation the guys gave me was rather painless. Until they asked 'So, you're divorced? Or what?' Truth is, I'm technically still married. Or 'legally bound in by tightropes' as I like to call it. Part of the reason I never ended up going through with Patrick. The 'you slept with my sister' routine seemed a lot more plausible, not to mention an easier way out.
Mike and I tried to make it work, on a few occasions. I found I couldn't even have him touching me the slightest without feeling morally repulsed. Just his hand on mine made me nauseous, God forbid the effect of something more intimate. In the end, I persuaded him to buy out my share of the apartment, and I moved into my own. Taking everything rightfully mine along the way, including my cats and his fish. I let him keep the bed. I probably would have scorched the damn thing. Or shot it into smitherines. Either way, I would have had to buy a new one.
We rarely keep in contact. He still lives in Philly, I know that for a fact. The last time we saw each other was a rather awkward run-in at the local supermarket 3 months ago, right after Ray had rode back out of my life, again. A bunch of even more awkward small-talk and uncomfortable silences, and I was out of there as fast you can say 'I gotta go'.