21 Jan 2012

You too

We fell asleep on the phone like old times. Or I did like I used to. I imagine her disconnecting the call, rolling over to turn off the bedside lamp (though its still daytime where she lives), checking the phone again to make sure. I remagine the feel of her checked pyjamas on my skin (though she told me she's in her lawyer attire).

I sit up and pray I didn't spend more than I can afford. There's a gaping hole in my recollection of last night. I don't remember leaving my local. There's a barstamp on my wrist that seems to think I spent some time -and money- at the Butter Factory. I don't remember calling her, but I remember talking. There's a fully-clothed stranger in my bed I don't remember bringing home.

She's waking up, slowly. I watch her take in the strange ceiling, the unfamiliar quilt, me. "The couch was too small", she says, "I hope you don't mind." I think about this and decide I don't. I wonder about the possibility of sex. "No," she says. "You must have found me attractive at some point," I argue.

"That was before you left me watching tv to talk to your ex," she smiles, "I should probably be mad."
"I should probably be sorry-" I begin.
"-But you don't remember," she finishes for me.  

She doesn't want coffee or toast, but she'd like to use my computer to check her mail. Her Blackberry is out, she explains. I wonder again about the possibility of sex. "No," she says, typing away. I feel cheated, and hung over. And cheated. "I'm sorry about last night," I say. I insist I only get like that when I'm really drunk, that I almost never get that drunk, that I dumped her, not she me. I will lie in a church if it houses the possibility of sex. "Let me buy you a drink sometime," I say.

She explains why that may not be a good idea. She will however still help out with finding a job in publishing. I don't remember this thread of conversation. I take her card. She is In Recruitment. I wonder if she isn't kind of giving me her number. "No," she smiles. My brain refuses to process this information. There's blood and hope aplenty in my nethers.

I decide I should save her number on my phone before the card is stripped for roaches. I have a text from the aborter of our maybe-babies. "I want you to know," she wants me to know, "that you don't need me anymore." Yeah well, I want you to know that you're not going to convince me of that by quoting our fucking breakup song.

                Kite - U2  (All that you can't leave behind)





     

4 comments:

red dirt girl said...

I really want to comment on this, but I'm in a bit of a mood funk.

I'm hoping this is fiction because if a man left me in front of a TV to go and call his ex, I'd have to nail his balls to the wall before I called a cab and left.

Maybe I'm showing my age, here. Actually, I AM showing my age because you wouldn't find me grazing in a bar to begin with ...

No worries then - your balls are safe. You bring new meaning to the phrase Don't drink and dial.

xxx

icyhighs said...

It's called a 'club', Red. Would you like get with the program?! :) (Yes, I've recently discovered emoticons and intend to use them regularly in a misguided attempt to get down with the kids. Till there's nothing left of my soul, obviously.)

I'm oddly attached to my testicles so I'm going to keep mum on this one.
:)
;)
:( etc

red dirt girl said...

I'm sorry Icy. That comment wasn't really about you at all. Just let's call it a bad day all round and start fresh. Your writing still rocks!

xxx

right, club, club, club she mutters to herself ... :)

Sanjana said...

hmmmm.
I'm not sure whether to laugh or sympathize.