Second Place: Appeal of a Sidedish by Darren Defreitas

Second Place: Creative Nonfiction Appeal of a Sidedish Darren Defreitas

Could you imagine being single YET! You’re a strong independent woman (or man) that don’t need no man! Until the night comes around, and you’re lying in solitude in a queen sized bed, caressing a velvet white pillow, and imagining it’s the chest of the man you don’t need. The thing about beds is most of them are, in fact, large enough for two people. To be honest, I think they’re all built that way, with the exception college dorm room beds, of course. Those ungodly creations aren’t even suited for one person. The one thing everybody seems to be afraid of is dying alone. Nobody wants to be a lonely cat lady. We’re all out there in the world, searching for a special someone, and it’s all some people care about. As juvenile and overly optimistic as it sounds, it’s true, and some people would do anything to find this, even for a brief moment. As the saying goes, “It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” As for me? My saying has always been: “Meh, I’m gucci.” Which roughly translates to “I am content with just the way things are.” The person I am is very much capable of being both this intelligent as well as stupid all at once. That’s, actually one of the more telling things I’ve learnt about myself. Somehow, I manage to win the coveted award of number one genius and professional dumbass. Sometimes, or should I more accurately say rarely, I make mistakes, and I’m wrong about things. The millennial generation of women are quite amusing. Never has a generation of females been so proud to proclaim they’re sleeping with another woman’s man. I swear to god, these women treat men like Pokémon trading cards. Quite honestly, it’s the most ridiculous phenomenon I’ve ever witnessed. What could possibly be the allure in being the “Other woman?” And, as mysterious and cool as the name just sounded, it’s not. I myself have been the other woman, except not really, because I’m a man but it doesn’t even matter, to be quite frank. It’s 2019, and anything goes.

I remember the first time I met him, on the luxurious, high end, prestigious website known as Facebook. It was love at first sight! Our eyes locked! Except not really, because we were online liking each other’s photos, which is pretty much the modern day equivalent of love at first sight. After sliding into the DM’s, as the youth say nowadays, we texted, and he was very quick to mention he was already in a relationship; and, just like a transformer, my brain recalibrated its settings. “Next!” I did have every intent to bypass this man for the next best thing, but he clearly had other plans. After lying to him, and telling him I didn’t have a phone number, despite owning a cell phone, I eventually gave him the number I claimed to not have, which resulted in him calling me out on my lie. I bluntly

replied, “I didn’t want to give it to you.” The man, then, made it his undying duty to text me, every single day, since that time, and he was lucky I was polite enough to grace him with a reply. Eventually, he requested we met up, to which I swiftly declined his invitation. Sometimes, it actually pays off to be a stone cold bitch. If only I was in fact a stone cold bitch. But guess what? I actually have feelings. That’s another thing I was shocked to learn, and he had developed a lot of feelings—for me—of course. Now, I’m no dummy. So I always knew he was captivated, but, the extent to which he was, I unfortunately underestimated. He confessed, he had fallen madly in love with me. Of course, he did. At least, he has good taste. I was moved by this profession, however, for him the feeling wasn’t mutual. It was unreturned. Unrequited.

That all changed, after a few months, specifically, on the day we finally met in the person. That’s where I went wrong. I had grossly miscalculated. I never would have imagined falling for him the way that I did. What a lot of millennials fail to appreciate is the sanctity of face to face interactions. We stay glued behind the black screens of our devices, and we call people whom we’ve never even met in person our friends. It’s ludicrous. It was different. He was different. He even looked different. He looked so much nicer. The look in his eyes as they resonated into mine was a phenomenon I’d never experienced before. To be quite frank, he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in my life. Maybe, if you saw him you wouldn’t have agreed, but I couldn’t care less about anybody’s opinion. My preferences have nothing to do with societal standards of beauty. As much as I hate to admit it; I fell in love, and that’s how I fucked up. Because, had I not fallen in love, it would have been fine, by this generations standards. You can do as you please with the other woman’s man, but don’t be stupid enough to fall in love. That’s rule number one, dumbass. As my love grew, so did the pain, in fact, they were directly proportional. I thought about him, daily, the words he said, the things he did, the pleasure of his voice. The sheets were doused in his scent, like a predator marking its territory. The gifts that he had showered upon me without my request served as reminders, with each use. “Ugghh! Why did you have to do this to me? I never asked for all of this.” Soon enough, nothing he did was ever enough. We met up, a few times after that, whenever it were possible, but it was a few times too less. Sometimes, when we’d text, he’d have to leave abruptly. “The wife’s giving me the eye,” his excuse. He, in fact, was talking about his long-term lover, whom was neither his wife nor a woman. The abrupt terminations of our conversations had always been an occurrence but it was only now they had begun to bother me. Love is blind, they always say, but it’s true. It’s hard to see things objectively, when you’re running on endorphins. You start to have so many

ridiculous thoughts and fantasies about the person of infatuation. Like, maybe, one day he’ll leave his sorry excuse for a boyfriend, and be with the superior man—that’s me—of course. Obviously, he doesn’t love him as much as he loves me, otherwise, he wouldn’t be here with me! He wouldn’t have to cheat! He simply wouldn’t cheat, he’s a man of great character. It makes no sense. Good men don’t cheat, do they? Believe it or not, these thoughts are capable of becoming even more ridiculous; obviously, I’m special, and what we have is special. He and I have a special bond, a special connection! It has to be, right? After all, he always complains about him, and I make him laugh. I’m much better company right? This affair is unlike all affairs in the history of life! There’s this Cosmopolitan article entitled “The Other Woman.” Upon reading it, I couldn’t help but ask myself:

“Is my life being recorded? Is there a camera planted in my vicinity? Is that fly on the wall really just a fly on the wall? Have I been probed?” Life’s important questions. Impossible!—of course, considering the article was written and published in 1990, and I’m also not a woman. Well, what did I expect? Affairs have existed since biblical times. The only difference between those times and now is that I haven’t been stoned to death, and that’s pretty much it. It’s a journal written by a woman who is also sleeping with a man whom is not hers. She talks about how she feels while she is in the dilemma. I believe, she says his name was Jim. Evidently my guy’s name also begins with a “J.” Well, you heard it here first folks! If his name starts with a “J,” he’ll cheat on you! She discusses her thoughts, after all, it is a diary. When the other woman is alone, her mind moves at a million miles per hour. She’s happy, only when she’s with him, but, when he’s gone, the other woman is miserable. The other woman believes that his wife is not suited for him, that he and she would be a much better match. The other woman thinks they have more in common. The other woman tries to convince herself that her “undying love” for him will not keep them apart. Not even his actual wife could stand in their way! She does a one-eighty, when she actually meets his wife, though. She describes her as being “empty headed.” “They’re always empty headed, aren’t they?” When she realizes the pureness of this woman’s love for him, love in a pure form, she is made to feel small. This was the turning point. As I read the article, I’m riding the “feels train.” Her experiences, her pain, her longing, her wishes, were so relatable. It reinforced this fact: it’s all the same. The truth of the matter is it’s not special, and it wasn’t special. I was not special to him. It was only through this realization that I was able to break free from the chains of whoredom. Blessed be! It’s a wonderful day indeed! And, of course, realizing that we were never going to be together also helps just a little bit. “Next!”

If only it were as simple as that. I remember expressing how unhappy I felt to him about being in such a degrading position. The tears I tried to fight back so feverishly came crashing down against the touch screen. As I tore myself

away from him, I felt so foolish, more foolish than I’d ever felt. I remember how genuinely perplexing it seemed to him, and that he never would’ve imagined he could hurt me so badly. It was all the times we could have spent. It was all of those nights I spent alone asking myself why I wasn’t good enough. It was how he’d detach me from his neck so as to be careful that I don’t leave a mark. My mark. It’s true. For it would be like marking my territory, but it wasn’t my territory to mark, and neither was I his. “I can’t do this anymore.” Two temper tantrums by yours truly, and we were over, but, I mean, let’s face it, there was no “we” to begin with; and that in itself is as haunting as it is liberating. Imagine glamorizing something like that, being a side dish, you know? That thing that’s there to complement the main dish and make it more appetizing. Yeah—that. I know how quick people are to target the “other woman,” and paint her out as a malicious person, because the type of bitch that sleeps with someone else’s man is an evil wench with no self-respect! Well, you’re right about one of those things. “Bartender, I’ll have a shot of self-respect, please, kay thanks!” I wouldn’t consider myself to be an evil person. More appropriate descriptions are smart, cynical, ironic, kind hearted, very idealistic and very hurt. I wish I could stand above all of this and say that it left me unaffected, unfazed and undamaged . My perspective on love and infidelity have changed. I believe that a good man can be unfaithful, but to be unfaithful is never warranted under any circumstance. If you want to cheat, then just be single. I’ve learnt the pain of tearing myself away from someone you’re madly in love with. I’ve learnt that it takes two to make a thing go right! And that same number “two” to make a thing go wrong. He is as much to blame as I am. Him for ignoring his commitment, and pursuing that which was not his, and myself for being a dumbass, and allowing it. I do feel remorse towards his lover for my selfish transgression, so much so that, if he were to smack me across the face, I think would allow it—ONCE. I have seen him around. He’s a bit problematic, but he seems like an okay dude. I’m sure he loves J deeply. The negative feelings that I harboured towards him were uncalled for and downright rude. There’s (usually) a silver lining in a toxic situation, and this would be all of the things that I’ve learnt; I’ve learnt a variety if things about myself that I wouldn’t have learnt, otherwise. I’ve learnt that the world isn’t so white and black. It’s a calm shade of grey. I’ve learnt that good men make mistakes, and I’ve learnt how to fall in love. “Oh, and no more affairs. I’m retiring from those, thanks!” As time goes by, I find myself becoming more and more like a machine, void of emotion. I no longer feel a gaping loneliness from within. I feel nothing, even when we text every so often, it’s not like before. He wished me a happy birthday, last month, and promised to get me a birthday present. At first, I entertained him, because he promised. I, eventually, declined his offer. Maybe, it’s cruel of me to treat him like a stranger, but what can I say? I loved him, though, I love myself a little bit more. This has never been a question of his

character, because he’s a great guy, but he’s not my guy. Could you imagine living without someone whom you couldn’t imagine a future without? I wrote this poem in an attempt to convey my experience and thus all experiences of its kind.