I haven't had an argument with my first ex in years. Thank god, because I certainly had enough arguments with him to last me a lifetime.
But apparently, we were due to have one more.
He's been hanging around a lot, lately — and not to see his daughter either. He comes when she's at school, drops hints about sex, and hangs around for a while before going home to his new girlfriend and kids.
Not this week.
No, this week, he waltzed in the door and jokingly demanded I drop my work at the computer to come visit with him. I made a face and told him flat out that I was behind in my work, racing to meet a deadline and that visits were out of the question.
Well, he made himself at home anyways, taking throne in my kitchen so he could tease me every minute about how I neglect him.
And then the phone rings. It was Ex Number 2, asking if I was busy and whether he could stop by to visit the baby. At least he'd had the good manners to call first. I told him we'd be home.
Ex Number One took on the look of an offended rooster and proclaimed he had to go home. Good. He marched to the door, put on his coat and demanded a hug.
I didn't have time for that shit and told him as much. I didn't appreciate his reply.
"Oh, so you have time to be nice to that f**ckin' Frenchman, but you don't have time to be nice to me?"
I blew. I didn't even think twice, and my voice rose quickly. I could talk to whom I wanted to, when I wanted to and how I wanted to. No one could barge into my home, demand my time and expect me to fall to my knees.
This was my life now, and no one would tell me what to do anymore.
"Listen, missy," my ex's face was red and his finger stabbed at me. "You'd better remember we're not married anymore and you can't talk to me like this."
"That's right," I stood firm. "And neither can you. Get out."