Five
days ago, he called. Said he was lost, that he ‘needed’ me. I’ve heard that one
before, I told him, and shut the phone. I regretted it immediately, of course;
I loved him, would never stop loving him, but I couldn’t do that to myself
again. I couldn’t settle for carelessness when it was all I had known, when it
was everything that had damaged me and everything I despised. There were
sleepless nights were I had sat repeating to myself that I deserved better, I
deserved someone who noticed when I was there and when I wasn’t, what I liked
and what I hated, what I wanted and not just what I needed.
It's
Friday night, and I sit waiting in front of my phone for his call. Deep down, I
don’t believe I can do better. What made me any more deserving of love than
anyone else? I should take it in any shape, way, or form that it comes because
it’s better than nothing. It’s better than sleeping alone. A small, younger
part of me doesn’t truly think that. It’s the part of me that doesn’t call him herself,
and both sides settle on waiting.
Five
days later, I saw him at the grocery store. He was picking out oranges when I
saw him. I stood there, hiding in aisle 10, thinking of the times he had
forgotten the strawberries I had asked for. He would forget, every time, and it
wasn’t so much about the fruit but the fact that he never cared enough to
remember, not once in those five years. I don’t think I ever told him that the
only reason I wanted them was to make a dessert for him. He used to talk about
a Victorian cake his mother made, one with homemade strawberry jam in the
middle.
I
dreamed of how happy it would make him; how happy he would be with me if I
surprised him with it. I don’t think he had ever bought me a cake, even when I
had asked. I hated asking. He saw me, lost in thought by the pasta, and our
eyes met for a second. I thought of the person he could be, if I had loved him
better, if I were better, if I was worth it. Just as fast, he looked away, and
the thought was gone. I picked out some strawberries once he was gone.
Five
hours later, he called again. I thought about his cold eyes in the produce
section, even colder than the ice cream I had eaten in an attempt to freeze him
out, and I couldn’t bring myself to pick up. When I saw his name on my phone, I
thought of the cake he refused to bring me. No, really, I thought of the days
he came from work and didn’t look at me until he wanted something. I thought of
the days I did everything for him without so much as a thank you. I thought of
the days he made me feel inferior to him, to his mother, to anything or anyone
he could think of. After everything, I just wanted a slice of cake. I would
have forgiven him if he had gotten it for me. I would have picked up today.
On
Friday night, a friend of mine invited me to a party. I went because I couldn’t
find a reason not to, and he was there, standing smugly in a corner with the
people he used to always choose over me. This time, I didn’t stand reminiscing
about fruit or desserts. I went and found my own delicacies. I was standing
over the chocolate mousse and chips when he came up to me. It was like he
sensed my insecurities, my inclination toward the safety I had in his neglect.
He pretended to say something sincere, with that soft look in his eyes and the
gentle smile that never seemed to translate to gentleness in his heart.
His
entire face warped into all the material things I wanted him to replace love
with: cake, strawberries, flowers, chocolates, clothes, and everything else I
pretended to want. It was too late for sweet fantasies to work on me when he
became just things. They only mattered when they made me happy, and he didn’t,
so he was junk. I can’t remember whether I responded to him or not, but I
remember taking a bite of the mousse and enjoying it. It wasn’t the flavor that
made it special; it was how good it felt to not wonder how much better it would
be if someone else had gotten it for me.
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