I walk in with a confidence I think I should pretend is feigned, but it's not. I'm fairly sure I'm
Not supposed to admit that. Women are supposed to be demure, confident, but just enough because insecurity is annoying to men. (Fuck Men). But too much self assurance is intimidating.

Intimidating is exactly what I'm going for. I'm out here feeling like a 10, fuck that, I'm a 12. And he should be thankful he ever had a sniff, let alone a taste of this.

The funny thing is that this is his night. Or so I've been told. Nominations have just been announced, and his name has come up on several lists of five lucky contenders. He'd confessed, in a hushed voice under warm covers after love had made you, that this was what he wanted. In his heart of heart, when he decided to give this a go, and to do it on his own terms, to make something, create some thing that he loved, that it would be recognized. That it would be art: that he'd be an artist, a credible respected one. Raconteur, and all that pretentious shit.

I'd wrapped him tight in my arms, and legs, and later into my heat and assured him that that would happen, that he was good, and he deserved it. The music, the music, dammit was that good. And he deserved this night, but he didn't deserve me anymore. And he definitely did not deserve my tears.

My tears had been dried, and I'd done my best to get over him by getting under someone else. He'd been a beautiful piece of man, robust and broad, in scope and importance and girth. The night in his sheets had not alleviated the ache for H.

He was good, but Harry was better, and his impression was better. He'd burrowed himself deeply inside and left a mark, shaped me to his mold. So far, I still curled to his curve, but I'd remade myself, reshaped the parts you could see. My heart may still beat the tattoo of his name, but my body was not the one he'd held and caressed and bruised. My silhouette was my creation and my heart and heat would soon be mine alone again.

The end had been abrupt and unexpected from my perspective. The months we'd spent together between his recording and his album drop saw us enmeshed. Our lives and hours were entwined as were our bodies whenever a moment was available.
I loved it.

I may have loved him.

Then, everything changed. I'm sure the King of Kindness has no intention of breaking up, or breaking me. But, the time together got shorter, as did our phone calls, and then his texts, and finally my patience. I sometimes wonder if that was intentional, or if he just let us fade to gray because his natural tendency to aloofness made him a horrible communicator. He was out of sight out of mind in a glitter suit.

I must have been easy to forget. And I let it happen, too proud to say the things I wanted to say. Instead I channeled all the hurt into my work and my self. If self care was an Olympic sport, I'd have won Gold. All the natural gifts he loved were now maximized. I didn't do it to rub his nose in it. I did it for me. Giving him a whiff of what he was missing was just a bonus. I'm somehow still on his guest list, so here I am, looking like revenge, walking in in a dress I know will make his jaw drop.

His driver, Josh, sees me, recognizes me, smiles, and even gives me a once over with a brand new glint of appreciation. He's never seen so much of me. Too much Of a gent to sneak a peek when H had me in the back of the car I suppose. Good lad.

My strides are long, my heels are high, dress short, a slinky slip of silver slides over newly hewn curves. You could call my long walk to the bar a strut.

I know the moment he sees me. Those mossy eyes always burned through me. This time though, the tables have turned. And instead of falling into him, I can feel the lingering glance track me from one end of the room to another.

He stares all night, and maybe I should feel a little sorry that I ignore him, don't meet his gaze.

I suppose I should be sorry.

I'm not sorry.