She was just here three weeks ago, he thinks. And now she’s just an image blurred into my mind. How can someone be so here, so totally involved, and then just leave? There was hardly an explanation, but even explanations wouldn’t suffice. How could it? Rationalization could only contradict his feelings. It all just seems so unfair. He sits down to watch television, but has to turn it off after finding himself comparing every woman on the screen to her. Wondering if they would care. Wondering if they would run away like she had. Wondering if things could be different. He picks up his gin and tonic. Things aren’t drowning like they're supposed to be. They're just getting worse, harder to cope with. They floated to the surface like the ice in the glass. He tries chewing the ice, crushing his emotions between his teeth, but they just get more compact. He tastes the things he hated most. He tastes his own loneliness. The television commercials remind him that no one even cared. People were still trying to sell him their useless crap. Capitalism was still uninterested in the slow deterioration of his life. He thinks of his co-workers, still developing software, still oblivious to his drunken stupors; his late night bouts with insecurity; his life slipping between his own fingers. Why haven’t they noticed? Why haven’t they cared? The phone rings. It rang about twice a day for the last three weeks. Every time, the same thing would happen. It was becoming routine. He would leap from his chair while adrenaline poured into his stomach. He would answer the phone in the same way. “Hello,” he would say, with emphasis on the “lo.” A rising inflection, as if it was a question to which he’d never find the answer. Just keep asking the questions, he thinks. Never assume anything. Telemarketer. Again. It’s never her. “Why can’t she just pick up the phone and call?” he asks the telemarketer. “um. Sir, there’s a fifty day premium life….” “Just even to let me know she’s okay. And she’s okay without me. I just need to hear her say it.” “Um…sir?” “Am I not worth a fucking phone call? Is that what I’m reduced to?” “Um. Well. These rates are…” “Fuck your rates.” Click. Back to the television. Back to the loneliness. He flips through the channels furiously, not bothering to see what’s on. He isn’t really even looking at the screen. Images just pass through the corner of his eye. The constant change seems to comfort him as he stares at nothing, feeling only his own nervousness. Maybe I’ll call her, he thinks. But she wouldn’t answer. She hasn’t yet. But it’s worth a try. He pauses and inhales before pushing the last number. Six rings. Answering Machine. She had changed her message since he last called. She now sounds more depressed, breathier, defeated. He hangs up and walks back to the cupboard, speechless. He grabs the Gilby’s Gin and Schwepp’s Tonic Water. It’ll be a long night, he rationalizes. They’ll all be long for a while. |