"Sorry for the mess I left," he tells me referring to the mud his boots dragged in the night before, as he is eying me for some indication of how I feel about last night's overdrawn conversation.
"Oh, what a loaded apology," I think to myself, laughing at the irony that he'll never see, but instead I give him a look he's seen a million times and simply say, "bye."
It had been a while since I've had to look in the mirror the next day, disgusted at my puffy tear-stained face, trying to recollect every exchange between us in the hopes that there'd be some kind of answer I can come up with... one thought dominates, echoing in my mind... this is not my safe place--he is not your security blanket.
It always comes down to the same thing, really. There's a general lack of mutuality that should exist between people who have been through what we have--"oh, excuse my naivety in believing that I was anything special and that by now you should give me the slightest bit of trust,"--shoots through my head: remnants of last night's conversation.
Last thing you said to me last night was that you didn't understand what I meant when I told you that everything was a choice and I just kept making the wrong one. This was my response to being told that I was young; I don't disagree, I am hugely disadvantaged in this way, but I never used that as an excuse.
So what is the excuse anyway? Do I have to have one?
I don't like this game.
Why can't it just be soft as an easy chair?
No need for late-night conversation that requires more thought than,
"Hey baby, come here."
Friday, February 12, 2010
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