I’ve checked my phone and Facebook—oh, let’s leave just say too many times. I anticipate his message. He needs to talk. Yep. He realizes he’s made a mistake. Biggest of his life, no doubt.
And in that odd little fantasy, I suddenly have power. So I spend chunks of the day thinking what I will say. How much should he have to beg? And, with me in control, what will I decide? It’s the same kind of imagined conversation you have when you plan to confront your boss or a difficult neighbor. Or even that person ahead of you in the Express checkout line at the grocery store who thinks nothing of unloading thirty items…and running back to grab a carton of milk.
These talks never happen.
We play them out perhaps as a form of release and maybe to affirm how ultimately wimpy we are.
I don’t want power over Tim. I just want to talk. And, yes, convince him that I am worth it. We are worth it. Still delusional.
If nothing else, I do have a few things to say. I delayed hanging up after Tim indicated he was done with me. I wanted to think things through. Make sure I said and asked what I needed to. Get that closure. But there are always thoughts and questions that only arise after the conversation. It’s hard to think clearly when someone you’re smitten with says he’s not sexually attracted to you. What about all the messages that opened with “Hey, handsome”? What about those wanting looks? What about all the flirtation? What about the comments about my body? What about the kisses and the commanding hugs?
Without closure, I’m left to draw my own conclusions. I don’t believe him. I think I scared him. That’s far more plausible. I like to know where I’m going. I ask. It’s not meant to be intimidating. I don’t understand how it can be interpreted that way. Tim said he waited more than a day to get back to me because he wanted to reflect. He acknowledged he has a tendency to be reactive. And yet I don’t think anything changed with the extra time. I think he stuck with the same reactive thought: Run.
But what do I know? Nothing really. Except it is over. And that message from Tim won’t come. I have to move on. To what, I wonder. Again, what do I know? Again, nothing really.
I bought some Häagen-Dazs. The real stuff, not the Half the Fat option. It’s that kind of night.