Poetic timing of betrayal

 



There I was, a weary traveller, far from home on a noble school trip, driven by nothing more than the innocent pursuit of pizza—a universally respected mission. 

But fate had other plans, because standing in line before me, in a dazzling display of poor decision-making, was my dear significant other, passionately entangled with some dude from her school.

Handholding. Hugging. Full-blown romance package, right there in the middle of my pizza sanctuary.

Now, let’s pause to admire the irony—she knew I was in town. Either she had the IQ of a crouton, or she simply did not care. Either way, tragic.

Did I make a scene? No, no. I had priorities—and my priority was pizza, not delivering a Shakespearean monologue of heartbreak. Instead, I executed the perfect stealth manoeuvre, approaching from behind like a villain in a psychological thriller, leaning in ever so slightly, and whispering a single, bone-chilling “hi.”

She froze. Then, in true guilty-party fashion, she fled. No words. No excuses. Just a full-speed, Olympic-level exit.

Days later, in the grand finale of this masterpiece, I met up with her to return her belongings—because I am graceful like that. Did she offer remorse? Nah. She blamed me. Me, the innocent school-trip wanderer, as if I had somehow forced her into a public display of affection while I was actively in the same city.


Do you have a story to share?  Send me an email to dpisafox@gmail.com


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