The Call

10:28 a.m. An unfamiliar number appears on my cell phone display, with a city area code. Odd.

Should I answer it? Yes.

"Hello?"

"Hello?" he echoes, as if I've called him instead of the other way around.

So this is the call I've waited over a month to receive. The funny thing is, though I've hoped so much to hear from him, I am now totally unprepared to conduct any kind of meaningful conversation. I mean, where do I even start? "Hi."

"What are you doing?"

I finish chewing and swallow hard. "Eatin' a chocolate chip cookie."

"Are you at work? Is this a good time to talk?"

"Yeah, I'm at work, and it's fine," I reply as I walk out the back door of my office suite into the stairwell.

"What are you doing?" he asks, as if nothing has happened. As if it hasn't been over a month that I've heard from him. Un-fucking-believable.

"Thinking about you, per usual," I sigh.

"I'm sorry I dicked you," he says. I don't hear a trace of remorse in his voice. I start to feel a burning hatred for him deep in my gut.

"That's okay," I murmur. "I know enough not to take it personally. It's just what you do...what you've always done." He is silent. I continue, "Did you move back in with her?"

"Yeah. It's so stupid. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing."

"Hmm. I knew you would." Was I right, or was I right? Thank you very much.

"Yeah? How did you know?"

"Because I know you," I hiss. "I know how you are. Not that I care. It's your life."

"I can't stay there much longer, though. This weekend was miserable. I don't even want to talk about it."

I've heard it all before, the same old song and dance routine that he trots out every time we talk. Not that I care. It's not like I'm leaving my husband for him, that's for damn sure.

He tells me that he didn't show up because he's lazy and that there was no excuse for it. "I'm thinking of going on a walkabout."

"A what? Are you even speaking English right now?"

"Yes! Of course I am. Didn't you ever see Crocodile Dundee?"

"Like I'd remember it? It came out when we were about eight!" This conversation is growing more bizarre by the second.

"A walkabout! Ya know...just pack up and move. Travel around the world."

"Oh. Okay."

"Wanna come with me?"

"No," I reply firmly.

"Why not?" he asks, sounding hurt.

"Because, David...you can't just walk away from your problems."

"Sure I can."

"No you can't. Because your problems are inside of you. They'll always be with you unless you address them." Why do I even bother?

"I heard you were looking for me," he says, changing the subject.

"From who? Your dad?" I had called his father two weeks ago, not particularly because I was looking for David, but to wish him a happy holiday and to ask about his recuperation from the double knee replacement surgery he'd had in October.

"Yeah...he called me and told me that you'd called him. He sounded pretty jazzed that you called, actually. He asked me, 'Are you going to get back together with her?'" David chuckles. "My dad always liked you. He thinks you're a nice girl."

"Hey, I didn't even bring up your name when I spoke to him. I just called him to see how he's been feeling since his operation."

"Well, he was pretty happy to hear from you."

Silence.

"I've missed you," he says finally.

Oh, God. Here it comes. I can feel the tears well up, threatening to spill over my eyelids and down my face. My voice quavers. "I miss you too. I...I can't talk about it right now. Or else I'll cry."

"Please don't cry. Don't cry! I'm sorry...I don't want to make you cry," he pleads.

It's too late to stop the tears from flowing, but I manage to get my voice under control after pausing for a long moment. "It's okay. I'm okay. I know I shouldn't take it personally."

"Please don't! I don't know what my problem is," he admits. "I just had a funny reaction to that night we were together. I got all...fluffy. But I shouldn't have done that to you. I'm really sorry for standing you up." He sounds perfectly contrite this time.

"What kind of reaction?" I ask.

"You know...how I broke out in hives that night, and I started feeling panicky." That much was true; after dinner at Applebee's that night, he'd complained that he wasn't feeling well. His skin had turned flushed and clammy, and he'd told me he was having a hard time breathing. At first I'd joked that I was the cause of his symptoms, but I'd soon realized that he wasn't kidding me. We'd sat outside for a while so that he could get some fresh air, and I'd kept asking him if he wanted me to just take him straight home. He wouldn't hear any of it, insisting on staying with me because "it's the only night I get to see you this week." Eventually, the reaction had passed, and we had then gone to my SUV and commenced with the rest of the activities of that evening.

"Well, I don't want to cause that kind of reaction in you, so maybe we shouldn't see each other again," I suggest.

"No!" he says. "I think it was from the paint thinner I've been using at work. Because it's happened again since then, and I haven't seen you. So it's not you."

"David," I whisper, "that night we were together was beautiful. To me. I don't care what you think, I thought it was perfect. When you...entered me, I felt like I was home again. You feel like home to me." I start to cry again.

"Awww, don't cry, please," he begs again. "I'm sorry."

"Just tell me the truth," I say. "What did you think I was going to do? Scream at you? I would never do that. If you didn't want to meet up with me that day, you should've just called me and told me so. I'm your friend, David! Probably the only friend you've ever had."

"I know that," he replies glumly. "That's the truth."

"And friends don't do that to each other. If there were ever a time when you didn't feel like talking to me or seeing me, you need to just tell me the truth. That's all. I wouldn't be mad at you."

We make arrangements to meet for pizza later that night. I have a Foo Fighters CD compilation I'd made him, since he'd told me that he didn't have any of their music, so I want to give it to him ASAP.

He tells me he'll call me at the end of the day, and I'm almost afraid to believe him. I hang up the phone--neither of us has said "I love you"--and I expect that I'll never hear from him again.