Heartbreak, Punches, And A Late Night Police Chase

I rose, a bit unsteadily, from the table where we had been sitting all night, slamming tequila shots and drinking pitchers of light beer. I could see him chatting with the group of three young, lithe hotties that had been eying him all night. They were circled around him, smiling their cute little skinny smiles and tossing their long, skinny hair. I was in a heady cloud of jealous, simmering rage. The tequila was about to get its job done; I could feel a “scene” brewing.

He was oblivious, of course. I gripped the edge of the table while the spins subsided. He was always oblivious. Three years of supposed “friendship” – ups, downs, jealousy on both sides, and even one shockingly intense drunken kiss a year and a half previously – and somehow I was still hooked.

Hooked on the possibility of "what if" - the possibility that "we" would be an “us” soon. I suddenly felt very foolish - stupid even – and if there’s one emotion more dangerous than jealousy, it’s feeling foolish and stupid. I don’t like to be wrong…ever. It’s a stubborn German thing; I come by it honestly, just ask anyone who knows my dad, my grandpa, or half of the town I hail as home. And I was dangerously close to feeling stupid.

I grabbed my purse and made my way passed them and outside. I knew he would follow me; he always did. Sure enough, not 30 seconds later, he was outside the bar coming my way, his tittering entourage huddled by the door.

“You okay?” He looked sincere. I glowered at him. A look of confusion flashed across his face and his usually clear blue eyes darkened a shade. I knew I had him now. “What did I do?