I had a good day today, and yesterday as well. Good, good.

I spoke to G on the phone.

We had a nice talk that degraded into a rip roaring fight, just like old times.

He has a lot of patience with me. On the flip side, he drives me a little insane because he hardly ever reacts to anything.

Sometimes I think he's just pushing my buttons, and sometimes I think he's seriously broken inside.

~

We were in the early stages of the fight. Where he prods and I scowl.

"Tell me," he says dreamily, "what do you hate most about me?"

"MOST?" I ask, playing it serious. "I have to choose just one?"

"Yes," he said, still dreamily. I could see him, comically, with his chin in his hand.

Then I thought about it, and I couldn't choose just one.

Stupid that I miss this man.

And I still miss him. He makes me feel a full range of emotions. It seems silly that I like that, but I do.

~

It's weird having him so close now. So close and still so far.

"Come visit," he said. "You've still never seen my place."

I know how it would go.

I would insist on sleeping on the couch. He would let me. He would bring out a pillow and a blanket, probably from his own bed.

He'd take me out on the town, and carefully never touch me. But he would show me a good time, and introduce me to his friends, being the perfect gentleman.

His friends would look at me sideways, because everyone always does when I say I've gotten involved with G. Even people who like him.

Then we would go back to his place, and it would be quiet and dark.

Something inside of me would snap, and I would fuck his ever living brains out.

And he would let me. And he would love it.

And he would hold me in his bed, where he has held so many women before, and tell me he cannot speak to anyone the way he can speak to me.

And he would touch my hair, fan it out on the pillow.

And I would smile the smile I keep just for him. It's not a nice smile. It's a hard, world-weary smile.

And I would watch the way the bedside lamp light plays on his dusty skin, and count the directions that his beard grew in.

And I would admit to myself, for a few hours, that I still loved him, even when he was being an asshole.

Then, in the morning, I would stiffly pack my bag. He would drive me to the bus station, if he didn't have a hockey game to ref.

He might invite me to watch him ref hockey.

I might go. I might not.

And then I would cry myself all the way home.

And I would be lost again.

That's why I don't go visit him, even if I secretly really, really want to.

~

"I gotta go," I say. "Really." I'm tired from fighting, but also secretly pleased to hear from him. We talked for hours.

"Call me," he says, pushing. He's saying it lightly, but he's not really joking. "Or text me. Any time."

"I might," I say.

I hang up without any promises.

.

Rosie.

Before&After