Deathiversary

Today marks the first anniversary of the death of my closest friendship.

Sandra and I were once inseparable, twins from different uteruses, we used to say (though I think it might be uteri? I’m not sure). Then one year ago, to the day, he walked into the office, and moments later, our friendship jumped out the tenth-story window—kersplat, wet viscera and broken hearts oozing out—onto the concrete courtyard where we first cemented our kinship over our identical packed lunches of banana and ketchup sandwiches.

That shared love of salty-sweet, fruity-tangy goodness blossomed into a beautiful flower of friendship. We gave each other stuffed animals when we were sad, crocheted pillows with “Go Get ’Em!” to celebrate each other’s victories (I have five), went on cruise vacations together. Even traded off wearing a bikini that one time. (I don’t really want to get into the details. Suffice to say that afterwards, we called it “the water-skiing incident.”)

Damien ruined all that.

His first day of work was a Monday. I remember this because on-boardings always happened on Mondays back then. Now they happen on Tuesdays for no reason I can fathom.

Damien walked into the offices…a vision. My heart whumps even now to think of his effect.

At 5’3”, stoop shouldered with a stringy, greasy comb-over, and a visage so besieged by whiteheads it was hard to know where one started and the other began, he glanced my way, and gave me a leering grin and a once-over glance that did something to my insides. Call it love potion number nine or a deal with the devil, that man had something. Something I’d never seen before, nor, I guess, ever will again.

Whatever his special sauce was, I wanted him. I wanted him badly.

But so, it turns out, did Sandra.

After Damien passed by my cubicle, his Axe body deodorant and distinctive BO filling my nostrils like pheromones on steroids, I texted Sandy.

omg, just saw the man I’m gonna marry!

omg, twinning! she responded instantaneously.

Uh oh. Wheeling my chair over a little, I poked my head out of my cubicle to look out toward hers. There she stood, outside her cubicle, staring at Damien’s baggy backside, the coffee mug in her hand so forgotten the brown viscous stuff they pass off here dribbled out onto the blue-gray carpet.

Feeling panicky, I whisper-yelled, “Hey Sandra! I called dibs.” I felt the eyes of our office mates fasten on me like flies on you-know-what.

Sandra turned around slowly, as if in a trance. She frowned at me and bit her lip. “Like, no way, Julie.” She shook her head. “We saw him at the same time. Besides, you got the last guy we both liked. I totally stepped aside.”

“But that’s not the same!” I found myself whining. “That was just a stupid, meaningless thing! This is forever!”

She walked the five feet from her cubicle to mine, towering over me and my wheely chair. Glowering. Glowing. “Read my lips. There is NO way I’m giving up on this one. NO WAY. He’s going to be the father of my babies.”

“But he’s MINE,” I whisper-screamed. “MINE!”

“Screw you,” she said, and dumped the rest of her coffee on my head.

It was not scalding, only lukewarm, thank god. I heard a collective gasp, but by the time I’d wiped my eyes with the sleeves of my mustard office cardigan, our coworkers had already gophered back into the gray felt holes of their respective cubicles.

Humiliation, rage, and jealousy do not begin to describe what filled me then. What coursed through me, what gave me a sense of purpose and meaning beyond anything I’d ever experienced was Grade A, grass-fed HATE.

Yes, our friendship had flipped on a dime. Over a man. But I was born, I realized in that moment, to hate Sandra. Everything else up to then had been mere prologue. Everything else faded into meaninglessness. Not even my desire for Damien could compete with the wildfire of hatred that consumed me.

It was effing glorious.

Over the next few weeks, I watched Sandra flirt mercilessly with Damien, and when Sandy put it on, it was always game-over for me. So, if I couldn’t have Damien, I contrived to make Sandy’s life as miserable as possible. My tactics, I have to say, were inspired genius.

When she brewed a pot of coffee one time, I snuck into the break room and replaced the coffee grounds with potpourri. She and five or six others drank the stuff, and, well, let’s just say the bathroom plumbing will never be the same.

I put fake coupons on her car for places she loves, like Boba Me Tea, and Build-A-Bear. What fun it would have been to be a fly on the wall when she tried to use them! During a summer heatwave, I watered her yard in the middle of the night a few times so she’d be confused about why her hydrangeas were so perky the next day. And just imagine her confusion about her higher water bill!

Still, she ignored me and pursued Damien.

My tactics grew more devious. One evening, I ordered twenty Canadian bacon and pineapple pizzas to be delivered to her house (her least favorite), another, I tee-peed the trees around her house (this is really difficult by yourself), then sent her ten new magazine subscriptions so she would have a hard time dealing with her mail.

When I got no reaction from her, just distant smiles, I resorted to creating themed days (Bring Your Favorite Kitchen Implement to Work Day! Show Us Your Best Impression of a Hamster Day!) that I’d notify everyone else about but her, so she’d feel left out.

Even so, she didn’t seem to care. At all. Might be because nobody ever participated in my “Days” except me, I don’t know. But I persevere, continually coming up with new, innovative ways to make her pay for taking my man. My favorite a few weeks ago was when I pretended to be her dead cat, following her around the office, meowing in a cat costume I traded my car for. The costume smelled bad—I mean really, really bad—and my boss pulled me into his office after only ten minutes to give me the number for the Employee Assistance Program, but it was so worth it.

Last week, things seemed like they might change. Sandra stopped me in the hall and spoke to me for the first time in a year. “Julie, I wanted to tell you directly, so you didn’t find out from somebody else. Damien and I are engaged!” She beamed and held out her left hand so I could inspect the ring. “Please try to be happy for me, for the sake of our old friendship? I hope, at least, there are no hard feelings.”

Staring at that giant cubic zirconia on her finger, I was surprised that I didn’t feel any jealousy. Not even a twinkle. Somewhere along the line, I had completely gotten over Damien. It was kind of freeing, so you’d think that would be the end of it.

But I woke yesterday with a deep knowing. I like my “hard feelings.” A lot. They’ve become my best friends. Besides, if I gave up my grudge now, what else would I do with my time and entertainment budget?