Intervention
September 26, 2008
Things have to change if they're going to work out between us. This is an intervention. I wait for him to get home, sitting on my bed. When I hear his keys in the door, I become nervous. I walk to the glass, open it, and step through. I hear his footsteps on the glossy hardwood, hear him put down his laptop, and kick off his shoes. I don't hear it, but I know he's taking his shirt off because he always does when he comes home. I hear him approaching the glass, and I catch my breath short. My stomach is turning. And then he's there, and he looks serious, staring at me. I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off, looking stern, resolute.
"We have to talk." He says.
"We have to talk." I agree.
"It's about you." He starts, his resolution holding firm. It's not about me though, and I tell him.
"It's about you."
He flinches, not prepared for this.
"No. You're wrong, don't make this about me."
"No! You're wrong! Don't make this about me!"
He turns his back on me, collecting his thoughts, finding a new sentence. Starting this over. I take a deep breath. I know him well, and I know this look. He's going to go to the fridge, and he's going to get a drink, and I know it. I hope he's not planning on going any farther, so I beat him to the punch, and by the time he turns back around I've got one for the both of us.
"Here, I got one for you." I say.
Now he looks away, and he stays away, and his mood is cool, and I'm so fucking envious. His body language says "No thanks," so I'll drink them both I think.
"So I'm thinking about going away for awhile." I say. He turns, stares me an inquiry.
"A long while maybe." I say.
"A long while, maybe?" He asks, turning back around.
He doesn't say goodbye, but he leaves and he's gone. Now I fucking hate him. I hate him and I hate me. I hate him because he ignored me, because he's so fucking cool and he doesn't like me anymore. And I hate me for being ignored, for being ignored and deserving it.
Tags for this piece: depression strange creative friends change