She deserves your words.
I think you know which ones I mean. Those words you sometimes shove in between the wall and the crates beneath your bed.
I am sitting here playing Fairy Godmother because I am such a good liar.
And really, you can burst out laughing at that one because we both know my heart is stitched into my palms and my words are stained on my teeth and if people still went around dyeing their tea like lovely Mr. Heath Ledger in “The Patriot,” surely they would sop up some of my blog posts and let the ink turn hot water into black & bitter truths.
So let me be honest: she needs your words.
In dimly lit bars. Over bowls of potato soup. On the car ride home from a long night at work. Rushing through a maze of tables to deliver ketchup bottles to screaming toddlers. Inside the voicemail box on her phone that holds messages from six months ago, maybe.
Messages she cannot bear to delete. Messages she probably plays on repeat.
Because this silence is killing her.
You know it is. I do, too.
Instead she’s got me. Miss I Cannot Tell A Lie, She’s Forgetting About You. Miss I Wish It Wasn’t True. Miss It’s Not Supposed To Go Like That.
All while she sits on the other side of the computer screen and paints her toenails. Head ducked down. Shirt stained with more memories than the top of the Empire State Building has held engagements.
She deserves that, too. Your engagement, you know?
Your undivided attention. Your “Really Now” and “Exactly” and “How about we set aside a couple hours to sip wine and scour the Internet for the perfect pattern to sew ourselves to each others’ sides for another four years?”
Because she’s not ready for goodbye. For lonely. For the quiet saturating a solitary Saturday inside a house that once held fresh baked pie and the smell of lavender burning and Tahitian candles and his smooth voice whispering terms of endearment.
You know that’s a crime, right? Sitting in the same bedroom where your heart has broken over and over by that voice saying things you don’t understand?
She won’t tell you. She’ll whisper “Call Me Maybe” and pretend it’s just a song on the radio. Just a tune to crank while she cooks chicken on the stove. Just someone else’s words, but never hers.
Call Me Maybe. Maybe Not. But Never “You Better.” Never “I’m Waiting For The Phone To Ring.”
She needs you, you know. Before she moves on.
She’ll be in San Francisco or St. Louis or Southern Mississippi with a baby on her hip before you ever turn around and whisper I’m Sorry I Forgot To Care in her ear. Before you offer to hold the baby so she can have three seconds to breathe. Three seconds to remember how she felt back Now. Three seconds for her to pull the baby away and say No, No, I am not doing this.
She will be making new connections. Gathering new phone numbers.
I told her so.
If you are angry, darling, you best run to me and settle it.
In the meantime, I will be learning the art of slurping potato soup. Or something like that.