Late Night Call

A late night call left me awake and unnerved. I almost feel myself shaking as I hang up. She did it to me again. My mind is racing and my self-worth plummeting. I need to find a way to relax since I don't want to start my day at 1 a.m. without having gotten any real sleep.

I turn my phone to silent and put it facedown on my nightstand, watching as the light goes out. With that distraction gone, I sink down into my bed and close my eyes. 

Words from that phone call plague my thoughts, echoing in my ears: "Sorry." "Late." "Next time." The conversation replays without ceasing.

Why does she always do this to me? Why do I feel so small and insecure after we speak? Why had I let her do this for five years?

I push hard against those thoughts, but they won't be silenced. Memories flash before me, beckoning me to recall the good times, but the shadow of disappointment hangs over each image.

Snuggling into the covers with her during a movie, just as she announces that she has to get going because she has an early morning meeting.

Sitting at a table that I had set for dinner, while the salad goes limp, the wine gets warm, and the souffle, I spend a month learning how to make, falls.

Holding her hands, brushing the stray hair behind her ear, looking into her eyes and saying "I love you," only to get a smile in return.

In all these years, had she ever said she loves me?

I turn the light back on and grab the detective that I have been reading, but I just end up reading the same sentence twelve times before I just give up.

"I'm sorry I ran late. I didn't mean to miss dinner," I hear her voice in my head. I want to tell her how hard I worked to make her favorite dish long, how long I waited, how disappointed I was, how insignificant and depressed I felt, but I repeat, "It's fine. Don't worry about it," my response from the call.

I wish I had the strength to tell her how she makes me feel, but I can't. When I start talking to her, I get tongue-tied and nervous, most of the time almost sweating through my shirt before I can get a word out. Part of me thinks that someone who claims to love me should understand how constantly getting canceled on or left waiting makes me feel, but she doesn't. Does that mean she doesn't really love me? 

I go to turn off the light again, but the picture from last summer catches my eye. We're both smiling in front of that cabin by the lake. We were so happy then; I thought she understood me. I don't know what happened. 

I glance at my phone. Should I tell her how she makes me feel?

Too late for a call?

Should I send a text?

Probably not the best way to communicate. 

Maybe I should write her a letter?

How would I know if she even read it?

I sigh and shut off the light. I have to talk to her, face-to-face, as soon as possible. I can't go on feeling like this. I plan my speech as I slowly drift into sleep. 

Morning arrives much too early. I can't remember even a snippet of a dream and hardly feel like I rested at all. Oh well, I push myself out of bed, creaks and cracks emanating from my spine as I struggle to my feet. Nothing like a restless night's sleep to remind me that I am now middle-aged. 

A shower and a cup, or three, of coffee should revive me. 

As the cool water cascades down my back, I hear that call repeating in my head, again. Why do I let her treat me like that? Why do I accept it every time? Is that all I deserve?

The soap swirls the drain, along with my self-esteem. Hopefully, the coffee will be a better beginning to the day.

I get dressed quickly, grabbing the pants and shirt pressed at the dry cleaners. At least, my clothes will be crisp and on target today.

Coffee screams my name as I half walk half stumble my way down the stairs. Luckily, I used the timer. The warm, alluring aroma of the morning roast wafts towards my nose. I am already reaching for my mug before my back foot crossed into the kitchen. The machine stops brewing, and I start pouring. I drink the dark nectar black, foregoing the niceties of cream and sugar. All I care about is getting the caffeine in my body. I have to be awake today. I have to be ready.

I listen to the news and finish my second cup of coffee, all the while thinking about exactly what I want to say when I see her.

When I pull up to the office, I see her white SUV in the usual space. Her long leg extends out of the driver's side door, showing off her toned calves in those red heels. I take a breath and briskly walk over to her before she finishes exiting her car. 

"What was that last night?" I ask before I can overthink it .

"What are you talking about? " she asks, smoothing her hair.

"The phone call. Another apology."

"Like I said, I didn't mean to be late or miss dinner. I am sorry. "

"That was the fourth time in a row," I say, staring at her as she finishes reapplying her lipstick.  

"Was it?" She asks absent-mindedly.

"Yes," I say, exasperated. 

"Sorry," she says, putting the lipstick into her purse and stepping out of the car. Her flippant attitude boils my rage.

"You're not. Sorry is for accidents or mistakes. You do this all the time. You only think about yourself. You are disrespectful, and I am done waiting for you," I seethe.

I quickly turn and head back to my car. That's it. I feel a little lighter as I drive away from that office, that woman, and head towards the beach. I will get a job at a grocery store there, living in a place where I can become who I want to be.