I know this is wrong, and unhealthy, and no good can come of it. Why can't my man of choice be like my roommate's cat, who lately has taken to unceremoniously and without pretense abandoning her - his original owner - whenever I walk into a room? I pretend not to be pleased by this, but secretly it makes me feel special and chosen. It's as if he can truly see the multi-splendoured wonder that is moi and foresakes all, even his first true love, for any spare moment I allot for him to bask in it.
Steve and I did not make it to a movie on Monday night. He is sick and claimed he would fall asleep if we did a movie. Strike one! He's supposed to be going simply for the opportunity to hold my hand, delight in the sound of my laughter as it echoes around the theatre, and to stare lovingly at me as I watch the film. And maybe feed me popcorn, just on the off chance he might feel my lips graze his fingertips. Fall asleep?! I don't think so, mister.
Instead, we met downtown to have dinner. My roommate, who was in the middle of cooking us dinner when we made this date, and only because when she asked me I said I was hungry and would be home for dinner, was understandably unimpressed when I threw on my coat and said I would see her in a couple of hours. First the cat ditches her, and now this? Steve and I ended up at a new Korean place on Yonge and had a delightful time cooking our own meat and marvelling at how the kimchee seemed to instantly clear our congested sinuses (I, too, have been feeling under the weather, but it appears to be subsiding - I blame the cocaine binges, frankly. There's only so much you can get up there before the inevitable backlog.) It was all you can eat, so we gorged like Tracy Gold in a darkened grocery store and washed it all down with some lovely jasmine tea. He made a pencil out of a toothpick he lovingly charred in our table's bbq and wrote "Brad = Gay" on a napkin, which he later made me keep as a souvenir, while I remarked this would be a perfect spot for a scene in a mafia movie, envisioning some poor meatheaded gangster being thanked for his double-cross with a scorching Korean bbq face press.
Afterwards I walked him to the subway and we discussed weekend plans. He invited me to join him and his best friend Paige for a night out this Saturday, which of course I quickly agreed to, not unlike a junkie accepting an offer of smack. We had a nice hug and kiss at the top of the escalator to say good night, and as the moving stairs whisked him away from me he said he would call me tomorrow.
He didn't. Not that a big a deal. People always say they'll call you and then don't. That's what people do. So tonight I called him. He was in the subway and couldn't talk. "Can I give you a call when I get home?" he asked.
"Sure, yeah," I replied. "I'll be around."
And here I sit, a couple hours later, next to my silent cell phone. Strike two. It rang at one point, but it was my sister Beth. She called to tell me that she had called my parents earlier tonight to wish them a happy anniversary only to end up hanging up on my father. Apparently my parents were rather boozy and Dad called her "stupid" and a fucking idiot." And what's news to me is that, according to Beth, they've called her this throughout her whole life! "It's a sore spot wiith me," she told me, "and I'm not taking it anymore." She then burst into tears, threw her cell phone across the room in a fit of rage, and then left for work. I find her reaction both reasonable and a tad disturbing, but not nearly as disturbing as what she might take out her rage on at work tonight, her being, you know, a cop and all. Oh, and it's a full moon tonight, just to add another splash of madness to the cocktail.
I did try to call my folks and get their side of things, but the line was busy. Either Dad's passed out and Mom's online, or they're celebrating their 31 years together the way I sure as hell hope I would be were someone to put up with my well-intentioned-yet-insane-possessiveness for three bloody decades.
Do you think after that long you stop worrying about whether or not you come first? Does it simply become a given after a certain amount of time? Or is it forever tenuous, always requiring the effort to make sure you're communicating to your partner of choice their blue ribbon champion status in your heart? I imagine it's both, really: you know that you are without question the one, and trust in it, but you love your chosen one so much that you always want to remind them of it. Hopefully without, you know, smothering them to death.
On that romantic note, my phone is ringing: Mom and Dad calling. This should be nice and draining.
Yup, no question, it's definitely a full moon. I think it's safer to just call it a night and call Steve tomorrow. Who knows?
He might even call me first.
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