Falling into the Chaos

Two: Tackling the Problematic situations.

"You have to sign for a letter."

I blinked up at Dhara from my cocoon on her sofa, day drunk and dressed in three-day-old pajamas. Two weeks after being left at the altar, I was at least slightly drunk most of the time but I didn't cry constantly, which seemed like an improvement.

That, or evidence of dehydration. I wasn't sure.

"But why?" I asked.

She scooped her long, silky brown hair up and tied it in a ponytail. "I don't know, Zoe. I tried to do it for you but the dude asked for ID."

It took me a minute to scrape myself off the sofa. The door was quite the journey for me. I'd only ventured outside the warehouse-turned-loft apartment Dhara shared with three other women a handful of times since everything fell apart on my wedding day.

The first time I pulled myself together enough to leave the apartment was to chop off six inches of hair-hair I'd spent nearly two years growing out for the perfect wedding look-and then take my natural black hair into a light brown.

I had no specific reason for wanting shoulder-length brown hair. I couldn't explain it.

All I knew was I didn't want to see the old version of me in the mirror anymore.

Changes lead me to my tattoos. I mark everything new that comes.

Much more permanent than changing up my hair but I'd wanted it for years, and now I needed a visible reminder that whoever I had been before this disaster wasn't the me of today…hence the ink on my ankle.

Then, I sold everything touched by my former relationship.
Dresses of every kind. Engagement photo dresses, engagement party dresses, bridal shower dresses, bachelorette dresses. The after-party and the next-day brunch outfits, the honeymoon looks. Those fabulous magenta shoes and the veil. Anything I'd worn with Yash.
All the random bits of wedding kitsch I'd carefully collected. Even two-ish years of bridal magazines.

And that damn gown. As it turned out, I hadn't ripped it in any significant way. Just a tear along the side seam, nothing a tailor couldn't handle. Seeing as that designer hardly ever made anything to fit a petite curvy hourglass gal like myself, there were dozens of brides lined up to buy it from me.

There wasn't much left after that. The clothes I wore to teach kindergarten. A collection of yoga pants in assorted shades of fading black.

A shoebox filled with wacky earrings I loved but my ex-fiancé had hated.

So, here I was with new hair and fresh ink, guzzling liquor while bingeing mindless reality television on my best friend's couch in days-old pyjamas as the ex enjoyed the honeymoon I'd planned and paid for as a wedding gift to him.

That was my prize for following the rules.

That, and whatever the hell I had to sign for at the door.

I shuffled across the apartment, a blanket draped over my shoulders and clutched tight to my chest because this tank top could not be trusted to contain me.
One wrong move and it was tits out.

Dhara leaned against the wall while I handed over my identification and signed for the letter.

"What is this?" I asked the courier.

"Not my job to know," he said. "Just my job to serve the papers and you didn't make this one easy on me."

"Cryptic, much?" Dhara said as he took off down the hall.

I turned the envelope over in my hands.

"Whatever it is, I don't think I care," I said, trudging back to the couch. I tossed the envelope to Dhara. "Just tell me what it says," I stared at the television, blanket pooled at my waist as I slurped up the last of a truly heinous blend of red wine, ice, and Diet Coke.