Pathetic

It's been over a week now. He hasn't phoned.




Or emailed.




Of course, because I'm pathetic, and because I don't want to accept (even though it's obvious by this point) that he has no interest in ever seeing me again, I have these marvelous fantasies that he's been trying to reach me for days, but he lost the slip of paper on which I wrote my phone number, owing to the fact that (and this bit is true) that when we left the bar he was wearing his mate's coat, not his own (his mate having confused their coats earlier in the evening and left early with the wrong one). So actually, my number is sitting in the pocket of his mate's coat, not his, but he's forgotten about this little mix-up, and so is rummaging frantically among his possessions looking for a little square of neon-green paper on which is scrawled the email address and phone number of the only woman he's ever loved, and going hysterically mad that he can't find them. Of course, he's too embarassed to communicate this problem to his mate, who, two days ago, found a small square of neon-green paper in the pocket of his coat, looked at it quizzically, and threw it in the bin.

Soon, out of sheer desperation, he will get on a plane and fly back to bristol with the hope of finding me. Except he doesn't know the city well, and the only time he was ever to my flat he arrived slightly drunk and after dark, so he doesn't think he'll be able to relocate my building. Perhaps he's done it already. Perhaps at this very moment he's wandering the streets of bristol, alone, lost, pathetically calling my name, shivering from the cold draft let in through the crack in his broken heart (despite it being clear and sunny today).


yeah, right, whatever.


I wish I could stop thinking about him.