It’s better, really, that he hasn’t called. The smell of his hair, the curve of his neck, the muscles in his arms have begun to creep into my thoughts. The image of him smiling as he bends to kiss me, the sound of his moan in the dark have struck at tender wounds I thought closed and healed.
Now, turning down the bedclothes I catch myself eyeing the distance between bed and phone, wondering if I’d make it before the machine picked up. Oh, Hell no you don’t, I scolded myself, surprised and irritated. Goddammit, already too many red flags. The comfort of his arm around me as we left the restaurant, the space between our bodies as we stood outside my car, the light of the moon making his eyes shine, things that stayed with me, emerging unbidden during the day, interrupting, distracting.
Now it’s 5 days and no call and I’m wondering why? Again. Oh hell no, I repeated savagely. Yanking the cord from the wall, I carried the phone into the livingroom, as far from my bed as I could. Call, don’t call, I’m going to bed. Alone.
Curled under my blankets, listening to branches scrape against my window and the low moan of the wind I thought; it’s better, really, that he doesn’t call. Ever.