Thank You Should Go

December 24, 2011

“Sometimes it is harder to deprive oneself of a pain than of a pleasure.” –Tender is the Night

The Writer calls me the next day. When his name pops up on the screen, I ignore the call. My life was one way before and today it’s not. It wasn’t my choice, and that makes me feel helpless. I’ve recoiled.

The voicemail he leaves is concerning the movie pitch that we’re supposed to write together, so I give it a few minutes then call him back. “Hey,” he exclaims like a little boy, excited to hear from his father who’s been away on a business trip. “Do you want to come over and work on this outline?” “Sure. When?” “Come now.”

It’s rush hour, so it takes me almost an hour to get there instead of the usual ten minutes. He texts me as I pull up in front of his house: “Are you still coming?” I ignore it, as I hustle up the front steps. When I ring the doorbell, the door opens almost immediately. It’s Dalton, his ex. I choke Read the rest of this entry »


Guess Who’s Coming to Party

December 22, 2011

“I believe we’re all in denial about the people we love.” -David Geffen

I was wrong. Things didn’t get better. The next day, I survived the worst hangover I’d had in years and have since remained thoroughly unemployed. But I’m determined to pick myself back up. I continue to go without seeing The Writer and do my best not to correspond with him. And it works. Sort of. Despite being in an unprecedented state of denial, I find myself manically productive and thriving socially. Between my strengthening friendships and returned interest to forging ahead on my career, I don’t even think about The Writer. Until I get home at the end of each night, and I lie down in my cold, empty bed. I find him in my dreams. He infects the thoughts I am already thinking the moment I awake each morning. That, plus I find myself spooning my clumped-up comforter. It’s a surprisingly decent lover despite its lack of body heat.

But even as he’s not here with me, I cannot seem to fathom my not waking up with him.

*     *     *

It’s Sunday afternoon, and my friend Cash gives me a call. “Man, I haven’t seen you in forever!” He says. “What are you up to?” I ask. “Smoking a bowl at home, you should come.” “I’m good,” I answer. “Well, I’m headed up your way later to go to a party. You should come with,” Cash tells me.  I agree and we meet at a trendy build-your-own burger joint around six.

“The sweet potato fries are delicious,” he tells me an insisty kind of way. The waitress approaches and greets us. Cash puts his serious black man face on and very directly inquires about the exotic burger sauces. After answering, she pauses then nervously opens her mouth. “You’re a no bullshit kind of guy, aren’t you?” “You know it,” Cash says. I start cracking up. Cash concludes about 80% of his sentences with laughter. “Oh, and this bitch will have himself some sweet potato fries,” he says melting into a chuckle. “Don’t tell me what to order,” I say in a mock-catty way. “I’m paying. You’re poor.” “That’s so sweet of you,” I say.

By the time the food arrives, we have caught up. “So what exactly are we doing tonight?” “We’re going to my friend’s birthday party.” “Who’s your friend?” I ask. “Dalton…The Writer’s ex. Have you met him?”  “Where is it going to be?” I ask without answering him. “The Writer’s house.” I look around like I’m about to make a dash for the door before realizing I’m only in a restaurant. “I can’t go,” I say with a certain amount of urgency. “Why not? You get a booty call or Read the rest of this entry »


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