The phone kept ringing and finally, realizing this conversation would have to happen at some point, I answered. He didn't bother with pleasantries. Instead, he fired questions with such specificty, I knew he'd been briefed on what I'd been doing and with whom I'd been doing it. I sat and endured with a weird melancholy, knowing that prior to sleeping together, details such as these would've been given easily, or at least easier, for they would've been discussed between friends, which we no longer were. Steve didn't back down when I tried to give vague answers. He continued on until finally I said, "Look, I had no idea how you felt and you hurt me before. I wasn't about to wait around for you to do it again." It was wrong to place the blame on him. At least not the whole load, but it seemed easier than doling out details his brain wanted to hear, but his heart couldn't bear. The conversation ended with a thud, the sound of a clicking cell phone button that echoed as much as the clicking of a door lock.
And now, it's exactly what I feared when I first dove into this situation. It's strained. Where there was once an active love, there's now a passive, complacent one. The kind you have for someone you once cared about: you love them, but only because you once did, not because you still do. Where there was deep discussion is now catch-up conversations every week or so where nothing is ever said and everything seems stale. We are growing apart and I can feel it, yet I can't seem to stop it. Steve's competition has taken up space in my mind and maybe my heart. The time that was meant for Steve is now someone else's and I don't make a moment to settle the score with Steve. To try and reconnect our old friendship.
Sorry Kelly Clarkson, there's no such thing as a Beautiful Disaster. This one is just bad, real bad, Michael Jackson. Perhaps I knew all along this would be the result. But that could all be bullshit simply designed to ease.
Today, right now, I have no real answer. We're just sort of there. Unintentionally intentional about being whatever we once were and are now.
Blackie Collins is a Manhattan turned LA girl with a big heart and a closet full of girly things like skirts and heels. She loves laying on the beach, dogs with people names like Linda, hoop earrings, and sky-high platform heels. When she isn't writing, she can be found scouring blogs, brunching with friends, or enjoying happy hour at any hour of the day. Her true passion is boys. It is perhaps the reason she can't get anything done. She lives in a great, rent controlled apartment with a great, uncontrolled dog. She has quite a few parking tickets, and dreams of the day DVF or YSL decide to slum it with a line in Target. Get it in with her at http://thatbitchstolemyline.com, email her at firstname.lastname@example.org, or follow her on Twitter @blackiecollins.