It Wasn't Supposed to Work, But It Did.

Last night I hosted a moment of brilliance.

I called Dave and was greeted with, "Hey, how are you?"

A little formal, I noted before hearing his friends in the background. He was with my ex's brother--the one who doesn't know about us.

"Oh, you're with Adam? You're undercover right now." I tell him that he goes undercover like a secret agent when he's with Adam. Must. Protect. Dangerous. Secret.

What I hate most about this bastard not knowing that we're together is that when they hang out, Dave is essentially single. Of course, there are other things about this arrangement that annoy me. Things such as the fact that Dave officially has no balls (I prefer a man with a large, durable sac, actually). Things such as us having already been together for 16 months (What the fuck are you waiting for? Seriously, what has to happen for you to tell him, Dave?) or that his friend is a bi-polar alcoholic who does not elicit any such trouble or anxiety on my part.

"That's fine," I said. "I've decided that I'm just going to make a couple of new friends and not tell them about you. I mean, I deserve to have a friend or two who think I'm single."

I thought about the prospects of having friends who didn't know I was with Dave. Everything about it is pure genius: If I flirt with other guys or allow them to, oh I don't know, pick up our entire tab, I won't get the evil "you have a boyfriend, you dirty slut," glare. I'll also be a better prospect for my new single friends to go out with. No one wants to go out with that girl with the boyfriend. Historically, that girl with the boyfriend is very dull. But not me, I'm single.

Anyway, I told Dave about all of this and he started getting pissed off. In the background I heard his friend screaming, "Are you on the phone with one of your hoes, bro?" Because, you know, Dave is single and has many hoes. (I know what you're thinking about the question posited above: Dave's friend is 21 and in a frat. But oddly 'tis not so. He's 34 and gainfully employed. Really).

Dave started getting pissed off. Like, really pissed off. I had no idea such a simple and logical proposition would work so well. The more pissed off he became, the more elaborate my scheme became. "No big deal, I'm only going to keep you a secret for 16 months."

Here we got off the phone and the text messages started: "Babe, I love you so much. I see your point."

I didn't write back. I get a call from him at some club. "Babe, have I ever told you that I want to spend the rest of my life with you and I want you to be the mother of my children."

"Shh," I warned him. "Adam might hear you."

Dave claimed that I was giving him major anxiety about this whole thing. Oh darling, I'm so sorry. Psyche.

"I understand. How could I have let this go on for so long? I shouldn't be hanging out with him so much."

No, it's not that you shouldn't be hanging out with him; it's that you should just tell him, you pathetic fool. In the meantime, I'm single and ready to have some fun.