Heartbreak 2.0
by Erik Smetana
The first comment came quick from the friend of a friend of someone that I play Scrabble with online. Her words, comprised of solidarity, a shoulder to lean on, an open ear anytime it was needed, and sealed with a “<3.”
Comment number two traveled the road of condolences and wishes for better days to come. I went to high school with this person, we weren’t friends, not in the get together for drinks or lunch or a ballgame sort of way, then or now.
The third comment was a full-frontal assault. Barbs, jabs, sucker-punches. I don’t know who she was. A cabin mate from fifth-grade camp? An old co-worker? Someone I should know?
“I can’t believe you’re sharing this!”
The cursor blinked, I considered a retort, she continued, “What must your wife think? How can you air your dirty laundry? In a place like this?”
Online, where private matters turn public with a keystroke and a click. What better place? Where else can someone wallow in misery, break up, jump back on the horse and tell the world about it, 1-2-3? And really, who’d want to keep this sort of thing to themselves? That’s why I updated the status in the first place:
“It’s falling apart, I’m worried about the future of you and me, we, our marriage. I think it’s over, not sure how it happened. All my fault, but that doesn’t make me want fix it.”
The attacks kept coming. “You’re awful.” “You don’t deserve your wife.” “I hope she takes you to the cleaners!” “Men like you need to drop dead.”
I let her go on, didn’t bother to course-correct her. Maybe part of me wished I had the heart to speak up — tell her or anyone — that I was logged into David’s account, or that she was eviscerating the wrong person, that my husband was a stand-up guy. Maybe not.
Seeing those words, as permanent as anything made up of pixels can be, felt right. No, it felt fucking good to hear someone say all the hurtful things that I couldn’t. Things that weren’t true, but still needed said.
Clicking reply, I typed: “Thank you” and logged off, after pausing a moment to flirt with the idea of changing David’s relationship status to single. Grabbed the bag I kept packed from under our bed, and left, longing for space to breathe and if I was lucky, maybe, find something, anything, me. Ignoring any notion of for better or worse or until death do we part as I pulled my car out of the drive.
Erik Smetana lives and writes in a small town just outside of Nashville. His writing has appeared at places like The Missouri Review, Bluestem, Annalemma, Mississippi Review, Hobart, Eckleburg, and PANK among others.
