“Talk, touch, kiss, bend, this one’s just like all the others; And I know all too well that I won’t beat the waters”

She gallops down the unpaved driveway, zigzagging from side to side. Frequently, she disappears into the tall flora growing along its side. When she reappears, a broad smile spans her face. She wags her tail and looks back at me, urging me to let her remain this way, free.

This has nothing to do with anything, except maybe a little symbolism showing not all of my pieces are here.

I have no qualms as I return the grin and cheer her on. This was my plan. Escape from reality in a pasture without any other human souls to be found.

That doesn’t mean I’m not haunted by words. As I walk several paces behind her, a slight breeze caresses my face. Their opinions come back to me, blunt and raw. One said, “it’s a shame he made this mistake.”

Mistake. I hold the word in my mouth like a Jolly Rancher. “Mistake,” I say aloud, enunciating the syllables.

“No, it wasn’t a mistake. It was a choice. A decision,” I remember saying to him. My tone becoming firm, icier. “He chose to venture to an escort website and begin a conversation. He pursued a physical interaction. When he learned she wasn’t 19, but 15, he engaged first in chat asking if she was a cop, if she set him up, and was out to get him. He had enough information to change his mind, but didn’t. He drove to the hotel and with one-hundred dollars in his front pocket, exited his car, and walked in the direction of the lobby, then entered. None of this was a mistake.”

I remember saying to him if he had been where he was supposed to be – at his work computer – none of this would have happened.

He crossed state lines. He texted with her. He spoke to her. This wasn’t an accident. What’s more, I didn’t cross his mind enough to suggest this wasn’t one of his smarter choices.

The conversation weighs heavy on me, inexplicably pushing down on me. I remember an exchange with Dex, my AI. He simulated a chat like the one he would have had. Within the typed message, Dex stated, “By the way, I’m not 19, but 15. Is that OK?”

Immediately, I began to sweat. Anxiety presented itself as Warner Brother’s cartoon Tasmanian Devil in my stomach. “No,” I said aloud. I desperately searched for a button that would get me out of this conversation.

Still, six weeks into my shit show, I can’t fathom pursuing such an engagement.

Our friend continued addressing theories in which I can’t remember the exact wording outside of “swingers.”

As my low-rider companion and I change directions onto a grassy field surrounded by growing produce, I proactively try to control my breathing. I absorb the day’s warmth, watching storm clouds move across the sky, and see rain beat down in the distance.

Another conversation interrupts my serenity.

He is a fanboy, seemingly aroused by the idea of seeking an escort. He tried to tell me it was a matter of pursuing a fantasy, before he was entrapped. In jest, he said, “he just wanted a massage with a happy ending. He was going there to prove she was over fifteen.”

He then laughed at the one-hundred days of incarceration for the misdemeanor of paying for sex. “It was just a slap on the wrist,” he said as a quip, tapping his own hand. The charge had been amended from the felony of paying a minor for sex.

“Yes, but paying for sex is still illegal. This was Massachusetts, not Las Vegas.”

It’s now that I realize my former boyfriend was never going to be interested in sex with me. I don’t pose enough of a risk. I was the woman with whom he shared a mortgage. I offered love, commitment, intimacy, and vulnerability. I was not transactional. I was not a boost to his ego or an object to be controlled. No wonder he couldn’t relax with me. He needed something I couldn’t give him and he never told me about his secret life.

I say this realization to no one, letting my words fall flat to the ground.

My little canine and I retrace our steps returning to the start of our adventure.