Something about the scene at her daughter’s annual dance recital made her downright hostile. Every year, the same crazy anger rose up in her chest and suffocated her. She sulked, she stared blankly at the glittery oversexed performances, ignored the very young woman that her exhusband brought with him (a different one every year) and kept her mouth tightly shut. It was just one day and it was for her daughter so she fought hard to keep herself in check.
So here she was again – same bat time, same bat channel – trying hard not to go bat shit on anyone. She was desperate for a diversion from the raging drama over whether to insist that the little girls remove their underwear before putting on their costumes – and settled for a bag of Doritos instead. She was busy licking thick orange paste off her fingers like the apocalypse was nigh when the only other divorced mother she knew approached her.
They exchanged pleasantries – she doing do from behind slobbery digits – and then, rather unannounced and unexpectedly, the other mother started commenting on her exhusband’s “date” and confessing that she too had dated her exhusband. Oh good, she said, thanks for letting me know. And with that, she turned and loudly asked for a show of hands from any other random women in the area who might have also slept with her exhusband.
Seeing no other surprises waiting to happen, she excused herself from the conversation and went to find another bag of Doritos and maybe a lonely corner to go with it – because she still needed to get through another 5 dance acts before it was all said and done.