Karma's Boyfriend
by Melissa Kerman
From the opposite end of the bar, you watch your boyfriend kiss his date’s cheek. He’s wearing the leather jacket you bought for his birthday last month, and it looks like he got a haircut. He must’ve decided impulsively that afternoon. Otherwise, you would’ve known, considering you log his schedule and memorize it better than yours. Your boyfriend waves to the bartender and asks for two Jack and Cokes. You didn’t hear his order, but you don’t need to.
No one knows your boyfriend better than you.
Definitely not Katie. She’s like a discount version of yourself, down to her (dull and drugstore box dyed) hair, (unevenly dispersed) freckles, and penchant for (knockoff designer) knee-length boots. You’re not sure what your boyfriend sees in her. Well, aside from her eagerness to give him head in public places, like when the pair snuck into the bathroom last week at The Tavern. According to your notes, tonight would be their fifth date. If your plan succeeds, it’ll be their last.
You glance at your rose-gold watch––your boyfriend’s Valentine’s Day gift, and another reminder of his disregard for your preferences since he knows you prefer silver––and tug your beret lower. 8:30 PM. Natasha should be here any minute. Maybe. She’s your boyfriend’s tardiest mistress. She almost foiled your scheme during their last rendezvous, when you anonymously tipped the police that your boyfriend sells anabolic steroids. Natasha was supposed to arrive at your boyfriend’s place at 9, but she showed up at 9:30, exactly when the cops did. Her lateness didn’t generate the same effect as the cops banging on the door and your boyfriend opening half-naked, with Natasha’s lipstick smeared across his neck.
The ordeal cost your boyfriend a thousand dollar fine and some embarrassment. Evidently, though, not Natasha’s affection. She continued to answer his booty calls for the following two months. Poor girl genuinely believes they’re exclusive. In her defense, it’s what your boyfriend he told her, and he’s pretty convincing. You, of all people, know that. However, after tonight, he won’t be able to tell Katie nor Natasha anything.
Your phone dings. I’m about to walk in. Will you please tell me your name?” Nosy girl, this Natasha. She didn’t believe your first message: Hey, I know this sounds weird, but the guy you’re dating is seeing multiple other girls and will be at The Village Bar at 8:30 tonight with one of them. She demanded you tell her who you are and why you’re contacting her using a texting app number. You didn’t answer, but you knew she’d show tonight.
You peer at the door, right as she enters. Natasha shares your curvy figure, but she’s about six inches taller. Her eyes dart around the bar until her penciled eyebrows narrow on your boyfriend. She stomps halfway there, then she halts and resumes in a strut. That’s the right attitude. An unbothered bitch trumps an angry bitch. She taps your boyfriend on his shoulder. Both he and Katie turn. Your boyfriend’s face resembles a teenager whose father caught him pillaging the whiskey cabinet.
The music’s too loud to hear their dialogue. It doesn’t look good, though. Your boyfriend’s fidgeting with his jacket collar––his nervous habit, along with caressing his beard––while Katie and Natasha converse with theatrical gesticulations. Katie almost whacks the guy sitting next to her. Eventually your boyfriend throws some bills to the bartender and trudges out the door.
Mission accomplished.
As you step outside, your boyfriend texts you: Hi, love. How are drinks with the girls?
He always texts you when he’s down, of which you’re typically the cause. Like last week when you pretended to be the girl he banged on St. Patrick’s Day, now pregnant, and in need of abortion money. Your dumb boyfriend couldn’t question the story––he was too wasted to recall whether he pulled out, so he sent the money and blocked your (fake) number.
Quickest five hundred bucks you’ve ever made.
Leaving now, felt tired...how is your night? What have you been up to, babe?
He responds within a minute: Too tired to come stay the night? I’ll make u breakfast in the morning :)
You didn’t lie. You are tired. And you have work tomorrow, not that you care about your lame marketing job, peddling shitty products from shitty businesses. But you’re also slightly horny. And you have a few tasks to do.
Never too tired for you babeeee. I’ll be over in a bit!
You hop into the nearest cab and open your Blitz List. You’ve had a productive two months. During the first, you swapped your boyfriend’s shampoo for Nair; his hair fell out in clumps, and he donned a hat for weeks. You ranked that stunt one star out of five. Two stars for when you hacked into his email address and deleted urgent messages from his boss; four stars for when you gashed his back tires, and his car broke down on the way to work. Four stars for when you trickled water into his employee laptop (which you later did to his PS5 and TV cables); he lost countless work files and had to reimburse his company, even when he claimed the device “spontaneously combusted.”
Two days ago, your boyfriend lost his job. “As long as I don’t lose you,” he had murmured in bed, grazing your ear with his lips.
He doesn’t need to worry about that. You’re not going anywhere.
You remove your other phone from your handbag, the phone that’s connected to his iCloud. Looks like he just re-downloaded Tinder, Bumble, and Hinge. And texted his old college girlfriend saying that he wanted to visit her this weekend.
God, the man couldn’t be loyal if his life depended on it. Which it did, sort of, but he’s too stupid to realize that.
No one knows your boyfriend better than you.
Definitely not Katie. She’s like a discount version of yourself, down to her (dull and drugstore box dyed) hair, (unevenly dispersed) freckles, and penchant for (knockoff designer) knee-length boots. You’re not sure what your boyfriend sees in her. Well, aside from her eagerness to give him head in public places, like when the pair snuck into the bathroom last week at The Tavern. According to your notes, tonight would be their fifth date. If your plan succeeds, it’ll be their last.
You glance at your rose-gold watch––your boyfriend’s Valentine’s Day gift, and another reminder of his disregard for your preferences since he knows you prefer silver––and tug your beret lower. 8:30 PM. Natasha should be here any minute. Maybe. She’s your boyfriend’s tardiest mistress. She almost foiled your scheme during their last rendezvous, when you anonymously tipped the police that your boyfriend sells anabolic steroids. Natasha was supposed to arrive at your boyfriend’s place at 9, but she showed up at 9:30, exactly when the cops did. Her lateness didn’t generate the same effect as the cops banging on the door and your boyfriend opening half-naked, with Natasha’s lipstick smeared across his neck.
The ordeal cost your boyfriend a thousand dollar fine and some embarrassment. Evidently, though, not Natasha’s affection. She continued to answer his booty calls for the following two months. Poor girl genuinely believes they’re exclusive. In her defense, it’s what your boyfriend he told her, and he’s pretty convincing. You, of all people, know that. However, after tonight, he won’t be able to tell Katie nor Natasha anything.
Your phone dings. I’m about to walk in. Will you please tell me your name?” Nosy girl, this Natasha. She didn’t believe your first message: Hey, I know this sounds weird, but the guy you’re dating is seeing multiple other girls and will be at The Village Bar at 8:30 tonight with one of them. She demanded you tell her who you are and why you’re contacting her using a texting app number. You didn’t answer, but you knew she’d show tonight.
You peer at the door, right as she enters. Natasha shares your curvy figure, but she’s about six inches taller. Her eyes dart around the bar until her penciled eyebrows narrow on your boyfriend. She stomps halfway there, then she halts and resumes in a strut. That’s the right attitude. An unbothered bitch trumps an angry bitch. She taps your boyfriend on his shoulder. Both he and Katie turn. Your boyfriend’s face resembles a teenager whose father caught him pillaging the whiskey cabinet.
The music’s too loud to hear their dialogue. It doesn’t look good, though. Your boyfriend’s fidgeting with his jacket collar––his nervous habit, along with caressing his beard––while Katie and Natasha converse with theatrical gesticulations. Katie almost whacks the guy sitting next to her. Eventually your boyfriend throws some bills to the bartender and trudges out the door.
Mission accomplished.
As you step outside, your boyfriend texts you: Hi, love. How are drinks with the girls?
He always texts you when he’s down, of which you’re typically the cause. Like last week when you pretended to be the girl he banged on St. Patrick’s Day, now pregnant, and in need of abortion money. Your dumb boyfriend couldn’t question the story––he was too wasted to recall whether he pulled out, so he sent the money and blocked your (fake) number.
Quickest five hundred bucks you’ve ever made.
Leaving now, felt tired...how is your night? What have you been up to, babe?
He responds within a minute: Too tired to come stay the night? I’ll make u breakfast in the morning :)
You didn’t lie. You are tired. And you have work tomorrow, not that you care about your lame marketing job, peddling shitty products from shitty businesses. But you’re also slightly horny. And you have a few tasks to do.
Never too tired for you babeeee. I’ll be over in a bit!
You hop into the nearest cab and open your Blitz List. You’ve had a productive two months. During the first, you swapped your boyfriend’s shampoo for Nair; his hair fell out in clumps, and he donned a hat for weeks. You ranked that stunt one star out of five. Two stars for when you hacked into his email address and deleted urgent messages from his boss; four stars for when you gashed his back tires, and his car broke down on the way to work. Four stars for when you trickled water into his employee laptop (which you later did to his PS5 and TV cables); he lost countless work files and had to reimburse his company, even when he claimed the device “spontaneously combusted.”
Two days ago, your boyfriend lost his job. “As long as I don’t lose you,” he had murmured in bed, grazing your ear with his lips.
He doesn’t need to worry about that. You’re not going anywhere.
You remove your other phone from your handbag, the phone that’s connected to his iCloud. Looks like he just re-downloaded Tinder, Bumble, and Hinge. And texted his old college girlfriend saying that he wanted to visit her this weekend.
God, the man couldn’t be loyal if his life depended on it. Which it did, sort of, but he’s too stupid to realize that.
What do you do when you smell your lover stinking of someone else’s happiness? Do you inquire about it and risk your assumptions being correct? When trust breaks, it shatters. If you confront your boyfriend and he lies, do you accept his falsehood and pretend nothing happened? If he tells the truth, do you stay like a desperate fool, or leave the person you love?
None. You do none of those.
You tried to cheat. But no one knows your body like your boyfriend does. Plus, cheating wouldn’t allow you to “get even,” because “even” cannot exist if your boyfriend doesn’t know about the revenge. If he did, he’d leave you.
You used to think his self-esteem was higher than yours. Maybe it is. Mostly, though, he’s incapable of loving you the way you love him.
You slip the phone back in your purse, next to your Xanax and laxative bottles. You slip a Xanax in your boyfriend’s drink when you sleep over, planting your attacks at the first sound of his snores. The laxatives go in his purified water pitcher. He thinks he has IBS. You tell him tell him a gluten-free diet might help.
Getting “even” requires mutual suffering. Both parties must experience pain.
The cab pulls into your boyfriend’s complex. You text him that you’re here and he tells the doorman to buzz you in. You open your Blitz List again. You could pour bleach in his laundry detergent. Steal his new Rolex, after you pawned his last two. Download a virus onto his desktop computer. Puncture his sink pipe.
It’s easy to ruin your boyfriend’s life. He believes he’s irresponsible and has awful luck. Recently he joked that he might have bad karma, yet he paused before he laughed. He didn’t think you caught it. But in that moment, as his face registered the possibility, you smiled.
This is how it feels to get even.
You walk into the building and whip out your compact mirror. As you wait in the elevator, you shove a floss stick between your teeth and swipe on some mascara. You silently curse yourself, resenting your undying urge to impress your boyfriend. You pierced your nipples because he once told you it would look sexy.
His door is ajar when you arrive. He’s scrolling through his phone, which he tosses to the couch when he sees you. He stands, wearing nothing but a towel around his tan hips, and flashes his crooked grin. It’s the one you fell in love with nine months ago. He walks to you and cradles your head in his hands.
“I missed you today.”
He kisses your forehead. Your heart explodes like a volcano. He lowers his lips to yours and you melt like lava, hot and fluid in his grip.
“I missed you too,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says before he bites your lip. “Promise you’ll stay the night?”
You rest your cheek on his chest, your face tilted towards his kitchen. There’s a pink scrunchie on the counter, and it’s not yours.
“I promise.”
You’re not one to break promises. Your boyfriend won’t lose you because you won’t lose him. Yet, as your head rises and falls with his chest, his heartbeat calm and calculated, like a clock, you remember you’ll never really have him.
None. You do none of those.
You tried to cheat. But no one knows your body like your boyfriend does. Plus, cheating wouldn’t allow you to “get even,” because “even” cannot exist if your boyfriend doesn’t know about the revenge. If he did, he’d leave you.
You used to think his self-esteem was higher than yours. Maybe it is. Mostly, though, he’s incapable of loving you the way you love him.
You slip the phone back in your purse, next to your Xanax and laxative bottles. You slip a Xanax in your boyfriend’s drink when you sleep over, planting your attacks at the first sound of his snores. The laxatives go in his purified water pitcher. He thinks he has IBS. You tell him tell him a gluten-free diet might help.
Getting “even” requires mutual suffering. Both parties must experience pain.
The cab pulls into your boyfriend’s complex. You text him that you’re here and he tells the doorman to buzz you in. You open your Blitz List again. You could pour bleach in his laundry detergent. Steal his new Rolex, after you pawned his last two. Download a virus onto his desktop computer. Puncture his sink pipe.
It’s easy to ruin your boyfriend’s life. He believes he’s irresponsible and has awful luck. Recently he joked that he might have bad karma, yet he paused before he laughed. He didn’t think you caught it. But in that moment, as his face registered the possibility, you smiled.
This is how it feels to get even.
You walk into the building and whip out your compact mirror. As you wait in the elevator, you shove a floss stick between your teeth and swipe on some mascara. You silently curse yourself, resenting your undying urge to impress your boyfriend. You pierced your nipples because he once told you it would look sexy.
His door is ajar when you arrive. He’s scrolling through his phone, which he tosses to the couch when he sees you. He stands, wearing nothing but a towel around his tan hips, and flashes his crooked grin. It’s the one you fell in love with nine months ago. He walks to you and cradles your head in his hands.
“I missed you today.”
He kisses your forehead. Your heart explodes like a volcano. He lowers his lips to yours and you melt like lava, hot and fluid in his grip.
“I missed you too,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says before he bites your lip. “Promise you’ll stay the night?”
You rest your cheek on his chest, your face tilted towards his kitchen. There’s a pink scrunchie on the counter, and it’s not yours.
“I promise.”
You’re not one to break promises. Your boyfriend won’t lose you because you won’t lose him. Yet, as your head rises and falls with his chest, his heartbeat calm and calculated, like a clock, you remember you’ll never really have him.
Melissa Kerman is a writer from New York.