My disdain for a particular amateur-in-editor-spectacles is not a well-guarded secret at work. At one time, she was merely a chattering annoyance, one of many people bereft of qualifications and ability, an obstacle that competent people had to circumvent. In that regard, she is wholly unremarkable at Microsoft. And then one day she screwed my friend Mandy out of a promised and much-needed job—deliberately, destructively, and without shame—and Lionel entered my personal Legion of Doom. She is and forever will remain a villain worthy of my scorn and occasional backhand. It's been 11 years, and my contempt for her hasn't ebbed a bit.
After she was unrepentant, it never occurred to me not to hate her. Hurt my loved one, hurt me. It's a simple code, one not uncommon where I'm from. Despising her was as natural as breathing air— befriending her, as unthinkable as breathing water.
Is there any form of platonic betrayal that stings worse than a friend cozying up to someone who's grotesquely mistreated you? The friend might not overtly endorse the offender's actions, but when they socialize, a tacit endorsement is what I see—and is surely what the offender sees.
"Yeah, he really screwed you royally. Tried to wreck your career. That was horrible," said my friend Robert recently of my old persecutor.
"So why do you hang out with him?" I asked.
"Oh no. I'm not getting in the middle of you two."
Ah. I see. Anything evil not done to you doesn't count. At least now I know my place. Please, do enjoy your time together. And if you ever see me hanging out with Lionel, please, if you ever cared one whit about me, kindly pump 17 bullets into my skull before Mandy learns of my dishonor and feels about me how I feel about you at this very moment.