September 4, 2002
Heart Cooks Brain
I drink orange soda and think of him. I see a white truck and my heart leaps to my throat. I finger the end of my pigtail and imagine his hands unraveling them. I listen to practically anything, and can see him so perfectly singing along.
But it's all okay.
He doesn't love me so much, I think. Or maybe he does. Maybe it doesn't occupy him as it does me.
Maybe he'll call tonight. Maybe he won't.
I keep going over and over the events of Monday, wondering if I said something very foolish or did something outlandish, wondering what I could've done, why so much distance this week, why my heart so heavy. I've been more than off balance, but his company alone causes me to at least try to restrain the heinous bitch within.
Why can't he call tonight? Couldn't he at least call tonight?
I wrote him an email, quite apologetic on the part of my rather unfounded mood Sunday/Monday. He hasn't replied. And I know it's because he hasn't read it yet, likely hasn't even checked his mail, but there is still that delightfully irrational voice that claims it is because I disgust him, because he wants me no longer, because I'm a silly girl in love with a logical man.
Could it be true?
I loathe when I am like this. I am always at least moderately schizo-paranoid about something, but there are just those weeks where I become almost intolerably so. Both to myself and to other people.
But doesn't my winning charm and grace the rest of the time make up for it?
Just say yes.
I won't see him again until Friday. Why can't I see him before Friday?
I don't need to. He shouldn't have to make the time. I should develop what little social life I have here, I should study, I should, I should...
If I'm engaged in other things, couldn't I just have him on the weekends and the occasional lucky Tuesday?
No, I didn't think so, either.
But I will have to make do with what I have, which is currently the silence of the phone and the empty state of my inbox and two days past and two days ahead and Massive Attack's 'Teardrop.'
I just can't watch things fall apart, no matter how fabricated in my own mind they may be.
We are in love. Doesn't that mean anything anymore?
Maybe only to me.
astera at 7:08 p.m.