Pictures of You

Pictures of you, pictures of me. Reminder us all of what we used to be.
--The Last Goodnight

The former man of the house was standing in daughter's room this morning when he noticed a framed snapshot of the three of us in Disney World taken about four years ago.

"Hey, you still have a picture of me," J-Fed said with an element of surprise.

Yes, I have to have something to use for target practice, I thought to myself. It was likely one more photo than he had of me over in his apartment. Like most divorcees, I had removed all of the pictures of J-Fed from the walls. I had considered burning them on the bad days, but out of her respect for the kids, I simply tossed them in a box somewhere and shoved it under a bed.

Some nights I secretly prayed that an oversized rat would sneak into the house and chew them all to shreds. So far, an oversized rat did put in an appearance every now and then, but he had yet to chew up the photos. 

Photographs were a sore subject for me. I remember about seven months back, post-divorce, when I had been hanging out at J-Fed's apartment. This was back when we still had a semi-cordial "non-relationship."

His digital camera had been sitting on his desk. For some reason, I felt compelled to pick it up and go through it. Needless to say, I was stunned when I found myself face to face with about two dozen pictures of a smiling T.O.W. (the other woman) sitting on the beach. All of the blood immediately drained from my face for a number of reasons.

#1 Regardless of where we went, J-Fed never took any photos of me, let alone set up a friggin photo shoot.

#2 J-Fed never went to the beach with me.

#3 J-Fed never really went anywhere with me.