January 2, 2003
Casa de Waffle
Thank God for Waffle House. It is a haven at eleven, twelve, and occasionally two fifteen a.m.
I had eggs and hashbrowns with ketchup and a very very small glass of orange juice. Mike's similar meal became unrecognizable as he, per usual, mashed it all up together.
Where else could we talk over a greasy table? Where would we drink hot, neverending cups of coffee? Where would I get the chance to play both Gorillaz's '19-2000' and Hank Williams Junior's 'A Country Boy Can Survive' for the low low price of fifty cents?
Where else could I go into the bathroom and sit down on the floor, going over our conversation, wondering exactly who is this man that I have fallen in love with? Is he who I thought he was? Are all of these surprises good?
Can I even believe in love when my own parents have given it up?
I'm not fishing for sympathy. I'm trying like hell to get over this, because it isn't my situation to come to terms with. But I can't stop randomly bursting into tears. I can't stop wishing Mike would comfort me when I don't even express that I am upset.
I told him yesterday that I can't want marriage, I can't want kids. I told him that I don't think he will ever get married, that he'll never love anybody else as much or more than he loves himself.
His response?
"Sweet."
And that is so sad. That is so sad that I fought to keep the tears from springing to my eyes, that I fought to keep from getting irrationally upset with him for the third time this week.
This is where that bathroom bit comes in.
He doesn't need me. He doesn't need me. He doesn't need me. He said he can never imagine needing someone.
I shouldn't need him. And now I can never let him know that I do.
astera at 6:35 p.m.