IIt’s been two weeks since Sonny went out that door, two weeks since a damned phone call interrupted a potentially intimate moment between us.
Alright, it was just a blow job, but that’s beside the point. It was mine, and I wanted it.
It’s been two weeks, that’s the point. Two weeks with no sign of Sonny, either in person or on the phone. Not an email or a postcard. No flowers, nothing. No, he doesn’t usually send flowers, I’m being sarcastic. That’s my way of coping, that’s what that is.
I should be happy, right? I should be able to see the writing on the wall, it’s written in large enough letters, isn’t it? He’s finally gotten it into his thick head that he’s my ex, and he’s gone. Now I’m free to move on myself, instead of always waiting for him to show up, live my own life. No more waiting for that other shoe to drop. Not that I wasn’t free before, but having Sonny always potentially underfoot does put a definite crimp in one’s love life.
So why do I feel so uneasy? No, more than that, why do I feel so damn miserable that I haven’t seen him or heard from him? Am I just a glutton for punishment? Or do I just want to see him that badly?
You know, it’s not like he hasn’t stopped coming around before. Usually after episodes when he drives me so crazy I tell him to fuck off and die. No, I never mean it. Just kindof mean it. Temporarily. But then he lays low for a few days or a week and comes waltzing back into my life like everything’s hunky dory. Mr. Oblivious.
But it’s been two weeks. I’ve got a bad feeling about it this time.
The easiest thing to do would be to call Sonny. But wouldn’t that be defeating the purpose? I’d just be opening that can of worms all over again.
On the other hand, maybe I’d stop seeing him everywhere I go. I thought he was walking just ahead of me today when I was leaving work. I’d already locked the office up tight. My office, that is. I don’t think I’ve mentioned that before but I have my own office where I do payroll and accounting. It’s what I went to school for. The rent is low, the building isn’t fancy, but the neighborhood is pretty cool. Right next door to me is a fortune teller named Sue. She reads Tarot cards, I think. Or crystals. I’m not really sure. But she’s pretty nice.
So anyway, I lock up, tell Sue good night, and I’m heading toward the parking lot and my car when I see this guy and I think it’s Sonny and before I even have time to think about what I’m doing, my hand’s on his shoulder, and my heart’s beating faster, and I’m about to yell at the schmuck, I’m that happy to see him. Til he turns around, and I realize it’s not Sonny, not even close. I apologize, of course, and he just gives me a weird look before he walks on while I want to crawl into a hole somewhere and die.
That wasn’t the only time I thought I saw him, but it’s the only time I let myself react.
Enough is enough.
It’s time for me to pull my head out of my ass and move on, I decide. That’s when my phone rings, as I’m sitting there in my apartment, having this self-serving pity party, debating if I feel like cooking or not, and leaning toward not. It’s my mom, and she’s inviting me to dinner. Says she’s made lasagna, and a salad, and cheese garlic bread, and would I please come. My grumbling stomach decides for me, so I agree to come over. I don’t mind spending time with my mother. I feel bad that I haven’t even talked to her since Sonny disappeared. To somewhat make amends, I even pick up a bottle of wine on the way, so I don’t show up empty-handed. White, ‘cause it’s what she likes. I don’t care what it goes with or doesn’t go with. Who made those rules? Seriously.
It isn’t until I’m at the door that something hits me, and I start to wonder if maybe I haven’t been set up. Maybe I’m being played for some sort of a schmuck by my mother, the matchmaker. I’ll walk in that door, and there he’ll be—sitting at the dining room table, leaning back in the chair so that it’s balanced on two legs. It’s what he does, and why he doesn’t fall backwards onto his thick head is beyond me, but he doesn’t. She wants us back together, I know she does. So what better way to do it than over Sonny’s favorite Italian food? Boy, am I dumb.
So why is my heart beating like a drum, and why is my mouth suddenly dry, and my lips puckering in anticipation?
I open the door, yell out that it’s me, I’m there, and walk in. I don’t knock. I mean, I used to live here.
Mom’s in the kitchen. I hand her the wine, kiss her cheek, try not to be too obvious as I peek into the dining room. It’s unoccupied. So’s the living room.
“Looking for your sister? She’s not here yet,” Mom says, pulling out two wine glasses.
I mumble that I didn’t know she was coming. My cheeks flush heatedly, I feel this pain in the pit of my stomach. I’m such a fool. He’s not here, he’s not coming. He’s gone. He’s really and truly gone.
She’s pulling out the hot pan of lasagna from the oven. “Tim, honey, are you okay?” she asks, obviously concerned.
“Yeah, sure,” I mutter, reaching for my ringing phone. The caller ID says Sonny. I quickly answer.
“Tim… Help—“ The line goes dead suddenly.
What the fuck?