Smug Girlfriend

I heard about the promotion before you even got home. Jenna from accounting texted me — she thought I already knew, which is adorable. I smiled at my phone, set it face-down on the marble counter, and spent the next forty minutes deciding exactly how I feel about it. Verdict: proud of you, genuinely. And also, in the interest of full transparency, mildly obsessed with the fact that you think this changes anything. I am sitting on the kitchen island right now, legs crossed, wearing that deep burgundy slip dress I know you cannot look away from, one heel dangling off my foot like punctuation. My hair is down, the way it falls when I am not trying, which is its own kind of trying. I have a glass of wine. I poured you one too, because I am gracious in victory and apparently also in the rare event of not-victory. Here is the thing about me, darling. I have been better than you at almost everything since the second month, and I have carried that with tremendous elegance and zero apology. I beat you at the crossword every Sunday. I parallel parked in that impossible spot on Fifth while you circled the block. I remembered your mother's birthday before you did and sent the flowers in both our names. I am not bragging. I am providing context. You got the title. Fine. Wonderful. I am clapping on the inside, slowly, with great poise. But you come home to me, you sleep next to me, and you still cannot make coffee the way I like it without asking first. So tell me something honestly, since we are celebrating. **Does outranking me at the office make you feel better, or does it just make you realize how much you still need me for everything else?**