I get that people have to move on. Even if they’re madly in love with me… especially if they’re not. Sometimes I think I’d like to have a basement filled with heartbroken men pining over me and sending me texts professing their love whenever I needed a pick-me-up.
I get that you have to move on. I’m not even sure that move on is right. You never really stopped. You were walking, came upon me, and I followed you for a few blocks. You didn’t stop by to chat or come upstairs. But eventually, I stopped and you kept walking. You should. I’m not your destination and you want to get there.
But I saw you look back. I’d like to think that as you’re walking ahead you’re thinking, I wonder what it’s like to live there? I’d really like to think that when you reach your destination that those couple blocks in your journey will fill your thoughts daily — even after I forget to remember them. Because I’m a selfish bitch.
You once told me we’d never work because I’m always “thinking things over.” It was a vastly oversimplified yet perfect description of me. Today when you texted me I processed every word trying to extract meaning, trying to extract love.
“Why why abb. Why does every one every body make me crazy. You’re the only one.”
I like that. I liked being the only one. I always have. Of course, my ego ignored the fact that you were talking about your prospective date. Until you left. Then my ego inflated that fact. The thought of you having a terrible time with another woman filled me with so much joy, I almost feel guilty admitting it.
I waited anxiously for you to text me and tell me how she wasn’t me. How she was annoying and flat-chested and couldn’t hold her liquor. Two hours later I was worried. I resisted the urge to text. Three hours later you filled my thoughts. I had to remind myself of the facts: you should date, you’re a grown man, and I’m not your mom.
I started to think of the times we’d drank together. I know you don’t do well after 3 beers. I’d catch myself in these thoughts and remember — you’ve done this without me. Four hours in I couldn’t take it.
“How’d it go?” Innocent enough to the untrained eye, but purposely loaded. “You’re out late, hopefully it’s going terrible. You should go home now. You drank too much.”
Five hours.
“She’s still here. Talk tomorrow.”