And so at fifteen minutes before the appointed hour, she has perfumed behind her ears, lit incense in living and bed rooms, changed her clothes twice, worried about not having wine and stood on her balcony, hoping he will come early.
Phone. He’ll be a little late. Fifteen minutes or so. Half-hour at the latest. Her mind says half-hour to forty-five minutes. She hates the way he sounds. She hates the way her throat feels. She hates the feeling that she hasn’t had in the week he’s been gone. She is realizing she would rather not. Can’t think around him. Can’t get any real perspective on the shit.
Don’t come at all, she wants to say. Don’t bother.
Don’t come. Don’t ever come.
Buy a big house at the beach. Take her there. Tell her your dreams. Have some more kids. And sneak here when you wanna feel free.
I’m so tired of this role.
I don’t know what to do. Do I?
Yes. Tell him no more.
Don’t tell him anything. Unplug your phone and disappear. Make him come and find you. Make him? Is this a game? Is this a manipulation? Is it survival? Is it self-preservation? Do you want him? Do you want him? Do you really want him?
“A little late,” is all he said. “A little late.”
Every minute. Every second. Critical to me. She is embarrassed at wanting him so much that fifteen minutes sounds like twenty-four hours. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll be here.”
But the voice in her head says: Leave now! Go to the movies! Leave a note and split!
Can’t stand it. Too hard. Too scared. This doesn’t feel like love to me.