Enough

It's Sunday night and I'm left to my own devices again. Sure, Adam said he'd be busy this weekend and to not expect to hear from him, but I still wanted something. A five minute phone call. Hell, a response from my e-mail last Thursday would even be nice. I know a lot of you are rooting for Adam, but... this is just getting too hard. I don't like disappointment.

What this is boiling down to is how much he likes me. Schedule or no schedule, I fear the answer is, "Not enough." Not enough for him, or not enough for me-- I don't know which-- but either way it's still not enough.

I'm melancholy tonight as my phone sits on my night stand. It's dead silent even though I'm shooting it mind waves to ring even as I write this. I refuse to show any emotion of my disappointment, but instead let it leak onto my keyboard.

When I get like this-- doe eyed and numb-- I always think back to a post I once read on ThisFish.com. Heather, the author, went on vacation and a friend of hers filled in for her. He tells the story of how they transitioned from lovers to friends and as she's crying on the sidewalk, he says to her, "But I'm just a boy! I'm just a stupid boy!"

That's the line I remember. But he's just a boy. He's just a stupid boy!

Don't cry, Heather.

Don't cry, Sarah.

Strangely, that line brings me a lot of comfort. I'd like to think that all guys think that about themselves, that they're not worthy of tears.

About a half hour ago I was watching TV in bed and my mind wandered. I choked back a sob, surprised by the noise I made in the first place because it's easily been six months since I've cried, and began my mantra: But he's just a boy. He's just a stupid boy!

I repeated the words faster and louder as I got up from bed and ran into the kitchen. I opened the freezer and poured myself a half shot of vodka and chose instead to focus on the burning going down my throat.

Almost-tears adverted.