It’s as good a place as any.
I am waiting on a boy to call. Or text. Or send flowers. Or a messenger bird. Or show up on my doorstep. Or make some sort of effort at communication. Something, anything. I do this a lot—waste away a day on a boy that doesn’t deserve me to give him the time of day, much less obtain the honor of being the bulk of it.
A year ago I sat at this very same desk, in this very same house. But I shared it with a man. The house, not the desk. Now I just share kids with him and a last name that I am so not changing again. He lives in an apartment on the other side of town. Last I checked he had a on-again/off-again time share on a single mother of three who apparently is a DJ for a living. When she is not spinning tracks (or whatever they do now) in a trashy motorcycle bar on the wrong side of town, she plays poker in a different trashy motorcycle bar on the wrong side of a nearby town. In my head she sits at a table wearing a trucker hat low covering gas station sunglasses that hide blood-shot eyes that sit just above where the Camel Menthol hangs out of her mouth. But that’s just what’s in my head. I’ve never actually been permitted to meet her. I have been told that her and I look a lot alike. And though I am sure she’s lovely, I take great offense to that. I’m not bitter about not being married anymore—it was my decision and for the most part, I think it was one of the better decisions I’ve made. I’m not even bitter about the new girlfriend—sure, I wish he could have made a slightly classier choice in the woman that would be spending lots of time with our offspring, but alas, not my call. And maybe them learning a lot about music and poker at a young age isn’t such a bad thing. I’m just surprised that the ex-husband—the one that didn’t want out, that swore to never get over me, that begged for another chance—is fairing a little better at this dating game than I am.
Maybe our expectations are just different. Maybe mine are too high.
Nah.
So, I wait. The boy may graduate to man and attempt contact at some point today. If he does, I hope it’s by telephone line, as I look like hell.
I am waiting on a boy to call. Or text. Or send flowers. Or a messenger bird. Or show up on my doorstep. Or make some sort of effort at communication. Something, anything. I do this a lot—waste away a day on a boy that doesn’t deserve me to give him the time of day, much less obtain the honor of being the bulk of it.
A year ago I sat at this very same desk, in this very same house. But I shared it with a man. The house, not the desk. Now I just share kids with him and a last name that I am so not changing again. He lives in an apartment on the other side of town. Last I checked he had a on-again/off-again time share on a single mother of three who apparently is a DJ for a living. When she is not spinning tracks (or whatever they do now) in a trashy motorcycle bar on the wrong side of town, she plays poker in a different trashy motorcycle bar on the wrong side of a nearby town. In my head she sits at a table wearing a trucker hat low covering gas station sunglasses that hide blood-shot eyes that sit just above where the Camel Menthol hangs out of her mouth. But that’s just what’s in my head. I’ve never actually been permitted to meet her. I have been told that her and I look a lot alike. And though I am sure she’s lovely, I take great offense to that. I’m not bitter about not being married anymore—it was my decision and for the most part, I think it was one of the better decisions I’ve made. I’m not even bitter about the new girlfriend—sure, I wish he could have made a slightly classier choice in the woman that would be spending lots of time with our offspring, but alas, not my call. And maybe them learning a lot about music and poker at a young age isn’t such a bad thing. I’m just surprised that the ex-husband—the one that didn’t want out, that swore to never get over me, that begged for another chance—is fairing a little better at this dating game than I am.
Maybe our expectations are just different. Maybe mine are too high.
Nah.
So, I wait. The boy may graduate to man and attempt contact at some point today. If he does, I hope it’s by telephone line, as I look like hell.
