(Angry. Waiting. Brow-knitting. Teeth-grinding.)
Full 6 hours since morning. Since 9 am in fact. From the time I woke up, full 9 hours!
What does he think…am I going to crumble and collapse if he doesn’t call?
Is he even thinking about me at all? Does he realize it’s more than half a day gone without hearing his voice even ONCE?
My voice too is not so bad. Sorry to sound haughty, but a considerable few would give away something precious to hear it once.
And look at me. Reduced to hands and legs and fingers and toes…fumbling with every damn familiar thing (forget the zone of unfamiliar, I’m too ashamed to reveal my ineptness). Scatter-brained and hare-focused (if the latter means anything). Attention span reduced to sub-zero. Distracted like scared pet in a new house. Tch. Whatever.
Let him come to me the next time. If I don’t bleed his lips kissing…if I don’t dig in my nails and sink in my teeth…If I don’t simply ravish him right left and centre…arrghh.
Not that I’m dying to hear him. Huh. Whatever.
But I AM dying to hear him. How can he not know, not remember, my sheer, abject, complete dependence on him? What does he think I am? A saint?
Ah! A saint. That is what he is, and that is what he’d rather have me be. Thinking on these lines, the entire world deserves to be that. But are they? So, enough is enough. I too won’t be. Let him tell me that I’m one in a million. But if he can’t make time to call that one, why should I be that?
Damn it. That’s the trouble with loving him. In the moments you slip, you feel pathetic. Excuses sound rank feeble. You’ve a constant responsibility of being the best of you. NEVER LOVE A PERFECT GUY.
But then why hasn’t he called? (sob, sob). I am really not going to talk to him now. Worse, I will talk, but act nonchalant. As if I too didn’t notice the hours (what a whopping lie).
3.30 pm. He calls.
Him (soft and sweet) “Hello.”