and maybe we'll talk about the phone call tonight.

and she'll say "i was at work."

and i'll pause. and say, "think about what you just said."

and hang up.

except not really.

who the hell knows what goes on inside women's heads?

who the hell knows how, one night, she's sad to let you go off the phone, because she has all the news in the world to tell you.

and more than anything, you want to listen. more than anything, you want to be there, next to her, watching her talk. but you both know that the distance the phone gives is the safest form of communication.

(you used to think it was only safe for you. but maybe, you now think, maybe she's not quite as over you as you thought she was. but maybe you're a bloody fool.)

and who knows that the night you call her, she can't, won't, talk. even though you have news. even though you have been told, today, that you possibly could have been stuck with a two bedroom apartment to pay for, by yourself.

even though you have bought a couch, today, in an attempt to become furniturized.

even though you have begun to make plans to help the local college's sga fulfill an idea that the college censored because it was too... radical? too offensive, perhaps. because people didn't get the idea behind it, didnt understand it.

even though you wanted to tell her about how you were fucking nervous today because you had to stand in front of a large group and give a speech. about something you could care less about.

but they laughed. they were with you. they didn't mind when you stumbled. hell, one of them told you you were cute.

so you promptly went to bed with her.

(except not really. because try as you might, you really aren't over her. you've just gotten better about lying to everyone about it. everyone but yourself.)

and so you call her, because she said she would call you, and hasnt. because you wanted to tell her all this, and more.

because you wanted to hear her voice. again.

and she answers, using clipped tones. answering with the same word, over and over. and when you say bye, and think of hanging up quickly so she's left talking to the phone line, maybe hurting her, you don't. because you can't hurt her. and she says bye, and hangs up to leave you to talk to the phone line.

you can't hurt her, you think.

not because you love her (you do. romantically, yes. but unromantically, too. and that's the part that hurts.) but because she can't be hurt.

there is nothing you could do, or say, that would cause her to cry.

she has developed a crusty outter layer, and you blame this on yourself.

you hate yourself for it. to a degree.

you hate yourself for a lot of reasons. but that is besides the point right now.

and so you ask this incredibly vast emptiness a million questions.

and you want to stand up to her. you want to say damn you, look at me. i am a good person.

but you can't. you don't. you stand there and say please.

over and over, please.

maybe i don't deserve to be treatedly decently. i probably don't. you've probably put up with more from me than you should have.

but god dammit, don't fucking call me and talk forever and make me feel bad when i let you go.

god dammit.