It is now the 7th day. You have left your voice mails, have sent your emails, have googled his name a thousand times, and still, there is no answer. Your emails have been soft, your voice mails have sounded playful, yet concerned, never obsessive, but still there is no answer.
You flip the phone open and closed a hundred times, but do not call. You change your hairstyle, hang out with your friends, even smile at some stupid pickup line in bars, but yet your mind refuses to move from that last time you guys were together, that precious time ridden with laughter and kisses, tenderness and caresses, impromptu conversations turned into lovemaking turned into gasping turned into conversations turned into sleepy kisses turned into morning time on a dreary bus, still reliving the past moments and trying to keep the warmth of his touch.
You can’t call. Every strong woman down the family tree forbids you to. Every hollow promise jeers when you pick up that little apparatus that causes so much trouble and joy sometimes simultaneously. You check your voicemail instead, even though you know that there are no new messages, no cassette shaped indicators flashing on and off the screen. You listen to past messages left by his voice, scratching your wound deeper and letting the blood flow. Maybe the poison of his voice will flow out with it, who knows.
You tell yourself he was not that important anyway. You point out at the short time you spent together, the hollow way he kissed, the assaulting rather than the passion, the poor performance of the last night, all the little hints that told you he was not for you. You remind yourself of all the things you have let go, in order to give this bastard a chance to prove your little bitchy voice wrong, the interesting men you blew over for his flat ass, the parties you did not enjoy because he frowned upon “let-loose” girls, the way he looked at you when you initiated sex, the…the…the…
No tears. You promised yourself no tears. No tears ever over a man. Especially over such a sneaky, big talk, little thingie man. You can go mad with worry, you can go apeshit with anger, but no tears whatsoever. You’ll get more wrinkles than you already got, you’ll get ugly, fat and old and nobody will ever look at you again
The pep talk works and your tears go back into their little secret passages and resettle within the eye pouches. It is good to know that your body still respects you enough to listen to you. God knows he doesn’t. Oh, his mouth is full of honey and his eyes lie really well, but you know he doesn’t. He respects the image in his head, the beautiful statue he has frozen you into, and he possibly convinces himself he listens to you. Uh-uh. it is not true. He can’t listen to anything but himself. You almost laugh at the petulant face he makes, when you point out his bluffes and false steps. Then you remember.
He still has not contacted you. No words, no sign, no hidden message in the sky. Nothing. Nada. Nichts. Asgje.
Curse him, hex him, give in to your tired body and go to sleep. And possibly tomorrow, it will be a little easier.