Friday, at 11:59 PM, I was awake, reading.
Weeks and months of making excuses for her. It started small, with murmured apologies, regrets well in advance. After a while, it got to where she'd call — or worse, text — the night before or the day before or the hour before we were supposed to meet, always something'd come up.
Every individual excuse was perfectly legitimate. None of those "I have to wash my hair"-pitiful cop-outs. Individually, I'd've had to've been a cad to claim any excuse was really an avoidance. But in aggregate? No, in aggregate they couldn't be anything but intentional. Like I said, I spent the time making excuses for her, but eventually it stopped working.
I think the moment it completely stopped working
was on the Friday evening as I watched the clock roll over to midnight. I'd called her that afternoon to see if we could get together Saturday.
"I'm sorry, I'm getting together with H_ and S_ to work on a school project. I really want to get together, though!"
"Do you have plans Sunday afternoon?"
"I don't think so. I'll have to check. I'll call you back this evening to let you know." I should point out that this is the moment I knew she wouldn't call back. The moment my excuses for her stopped working is still ahead.
So, go ahead and guess. Take bets. Who thinks they know when I next heard from her?
Yes, you there in the green plaid shirt. The one who said, "Not until Sunday." Come right up, you've won the prize.
So Friday, at 11:59 PM, I was awake, reading. I looked at the clock, realized how late it was, and watched as the seconds until Saturday ticked away.
Gradually it had gotten so I was surprised when she followed through, rather than when she failed to. I was generally able to control my astonishment enough that it didn't come through over the phone. There was one time, though . . .
"I've got to go. I'll call you back in an hour or so."
So I waited an hour.
Then I waited an "or so".
The phone rang.
Wondering who it was, I glanced at the display. Surprised, I answered.
"Hello," as if I hadn't seen the name.
"Hey there!"
"Oh, hey, you called!"
A nervous giggle on her end, trying to figure out if I was kidding around. She ended up, I think, believing it meant nothing.
Friday, 11:59 PM.
Saturday, 12:00 AM. The moment I stopped believing her.
Sunday afternoon, towards one thirty, my phone buzzed at me. I looked at it. A new message from A_.
"Hey! I am with my brother but I will call you later! I'm supposed to get together with H_ at some point. Hope you have had a good weekend!"
Honestly, how smug can you be? So I answer.
"I wouldn't've been able to get together this afternoon anyway. When you didn't call when you said you would, I made other plans."
No, she didn't "call later". You're not surprised by this point, I hope?
Eventually, I stopped calling her and decided to make a clean break of things. I collected my thoughts for two weeks, wrote innumerable drafts, and eventually put down the following in blue dip-pen ink on a cream-coloured page.
A_,
You know I would much rather have said what I'm saying here in person (indeed, this is brief because much of what needs discussion needs to be kept in person), but you haven't given me that option. For the last two months, you've avoided any possibility of meeting, declined to call confirming plans when you've said you would, haven't bothered returning — or even acknowledging — messages, and gone back on your word about scheduled meetings numerous times.
My question to you, A_, is why claim you want to remain friends when you evidently have no interest in maintaining any sort of communicative friendship? It's apparent to me that we're not friends anyhow: I have a better opinion of how you treat friends.
Rather, I know you treat your friends well, because the few times recently we've talked, you've told me about getting together with them some of the same times you'd told me beforehand you had no time, and would be at home working on school projects.
Busyness, I understand. Disinterest, even, I understand. I don't understand dishonesty.
Somehow, though, I still believe we need to meet. A_, give me a time and a place and I'll be there. Otherwise, if you're still unwilling to talk, I'm unwilling to continue these games, and you may consider this good-bye.
Love,
K_
That done, I folded it, addressed it, sealed it with wax, and looked at it.
I took it to the post office, and I think the woman behind the counter thought it was something sweetly romantic. She shystered me out of fifteen cents, too. I needed a stamp, and she gave me one of those "breast cancer awareness" stamps, telling me as I put it on my letter that I had "just donated fifteen cents to breast cancer".
"Ummm . . . "
"That stamp is fifty-seven cents."
So I made a mental note to complain. Obviously, though, extorted donations weren't first on my mind.
As I walked out of the building — you expect me to say something about "a weight was lifted" or something like that —
No, I walked out of that post office my heart the heaviest it'd been that I could remember.
No amount of "You're too good for her," and "You couldn't have done anything else, with her playing those games," and "You so much deserve better treatment than that," and "No, you're not a jerk: she's a jerk," from my female friends was able to make me feel less a jerk.
Yes, I still believe that letter needed to be written, needed to be sent.
But not by me.
Not this universe.
And dash it all, not to her!