She misled me.
For years she’d supported me — childbirth, shifting hips, those late college days where I still looked stunning in bikini. But something changed. I think it began after she started getting all that attention. Not just from other women, but also men. It did something to her. What she’d promised: the support, to never be shallow or let me down, all fell apart.
This is how I found out: she lied about size, of all things. It was a fitting for our nuptials. She came into the room with her measuring tape and had me lift my arms. We’d done this before; I had an idea of what to expect. Victoria was looking especially chic that day, wearing all black, her fake granny glasses setting off her pool-blue eyes, her silky hair in a chignon. She smelled vaguely of rosewater. But as she pulled away, the tape a whispering snake, she said this: D. You’re a D cup.
I blushed. Not because this was true: It is not. I blushed because my Victoria, the one who knows my intimate parts so well, lied to me. The shock, the anger made me also sweat a bit, and I felt claustrophobic in the dressing room with its faux wood door. She gently shut the door on her exit. I was not as kind.
Dressed, I let the heels of my boots on the tile floor echo my rage. I told her it was off — everything — she was to come by the house and clean out the two drawers I’d given her — I wanted no remnants of her or our relationship. I threw the lacy black bra (who wears itchy lace anyway?) at her, but because the $150 bra was so lightweight the effect fell flat. Just like our relationship.
So instead of keeping all this a secret, I’m sharing. Victoria cannot be trusted. Steer clear. She’ll lie and take your money, her pale pink measuring tape hanging dangerously from her side.