The showdown happened, as Trish alluded, at the salon. The funny thing is that I had already heard of Trish. The Attorney (whose name is Thad, by the way – and no, names have not been changed to protect the culpable) had been referring to her for a few weeks at that point. He would casually refer to his “business associate” (which was a tenuous nugget of truth, since she’s a court stenographer and he’s a lawyer, though at the time he never specified her occupation) and the fact that they met regularly to discuss “business.” It didn’t strike me as odd – he is an attorney after all and works crazy hours and meets crazy people all the time. Especially with his brand of lawyerlyness – I assumed she was a client of his – an assumption we still laugh over. Trish having a DUI is about as likely as me becoming a domesticated housewife. The connection, though, was surprisingly easy to make, and when it hit me I wasn’t all that surprised. I take that back – I was surprised at his choice in Trish because we are, as we’ve both mentioned, almost completely opposite from each other. I don’t linger over break-ups. Get it over and done – clean breaks with as little gore and prolonged agony as possible (this blog excluded). That doesn’t mean I go out of my way to be gentle or spare anyone’s feelings when the situation requires it, as with Thad. He barely reacted when I told him I’d met Trish – he just waited to see how much I actually knew, or if I’d give him an opportunity to lie his way out of the confrontation. He didn’t deny it when I asked him if he was sleeping with her. He didn’t even blink, which is perhaps to his credit – that he didn’t shirk the truth, though I’m sure the slimy cretin would have if I’d given him the space to wriggle in. There were no apologies, no specifics given or asked. I refuse to put energy towards someone or something that doesn’t reciprocate. Why throw a big scene or obsessively wonder about the details of circumstances that have already come and gone? There’s nothing to be gained from that behavior – and you usually end up looking like a jackass anyway. This is not to say that I didn’t verbally assault his manhood and moral fiber (or lack thereof), or have the almost irresistible inclination to throw my glass of Syrah in his complacent face like some kind of self-righteous primadonna. In short, I told him off, and when I got home later that night I threw out everything he’d left in my apartment. Why should I return his pomade and infuser and ridiculously overpriced boxers at my inconvenience? If I’m not enough of a priority where you can’t be troubled to keep your pants on outside of my presence then I’m not going to care if you get your fancy-pants, egomaniac Versace cologne back.

Read More to learn how Mel made Trish cry