Saturday, September 20, 2008

He Was Drunk, I Was Finally Sober

I don't want him anymore.

Those are powerful words for a girl like me. A girl who slurps up unrequited love through a broken straw. When those straws are broken, nothing really comes through, but you keep slurping anyway. You know, just in case.

But this time, I didn't want to drink anything Mr. Corkscrew had to offer.

He drunk texted me at 1 a.m. I was only two days into my new job in a new time zone and in a new bed, and needed my sleep. But there was this random stringing together of words from a number I could no longer remember (I deleted him from my phone): "Several single malt scotches into an attempt to shirk the responsibilities of life for a futile, brief moment...thinking of your visit here which brings a hot and delicious taste to the lips. Never treated you as well as I should have. Perhaps that's my legacy to impart. Still, you're an extraordinary woman."

When I finally realized who it was from, I started shaking. I had deleted his message when he tried to network with me on LinkedIn, and now he found another way to weasel into my thoughts. This one got me mad, though.

I texted back: "I am extraordinary. Seems you're the only one who failed to notice."

Of course, in his usual way, where he refuses to accept responsiblity for his actions, he replied: "There is a difference between not noticing and failing to take action."

I told him I waited six years for him to notice and all he ever gave me was words. I don't want his words anymore.

Then he said: "I realized you were quite something at the table at Bistro Jeanty all those years ago."

That's where we met. He was probably drunk then too. He painted the air with his flowery words and I was caught up in their heady aroma. I thought he was sincere. But he has never given me more than hyperbole in the six years I tried so hard to win his heart.

It has been a painful lesson in observation. Watch what a man does, not what he says. He can say a lot, but do nothing. The action is what matters.

So I sat there, phone in hand, and decided to call him. Turns out his life is a mess. He's losing his house and his car. He's got problems.

And finally, I am free of them. I felt pity for him, not desire. I felt compassion, not love.

I don't want him anymore.

But I'll keep his words tucked away in the folds of my heart. Because deep down, I like to believe he meant them. After all, I really am extraordinary. I think he always knew that.

Turns out, I was the one who didn't.

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