I cringed hard. What the fuck could I say back to her? There was that ever so familiar silence over the damned phone. Fuck me this sucks.
Fuck it, I thought.
"Well, you won't love me so much very soon," I said. Well that kind of felt good, I thought.
"You're an ASSHOLE! You know that? Why don't you love me back? What's wrong with me? I'm pretty, and I'm smart."
She sounded so desperate, and that made me kind of like her. She was like a wounded little bird that you just want to take care of and love.
Silence.
"I never said I wasn't an asshole. I'm sorry."
"Listen. Listen for a second," her voice was kind of shaking.
I listened.
"Are you still there?" Her voice was still shaking, and she might have been crying. She was probably crying. For sure she was crying. She was probably crying. I wondered if she was crying.
"Ya."
"Listen... just please... please love me back. Please? What can I do? I'll do anything... you know there's always going to be other women, no matter who you're with... prettier women. Why not me? No one will ever love you like I love you. I'll love you forever, Danny," The desperation was seeping through her voice, but toward the end there... there was some resignation.
"I'm sorry..." and, well, she hung up the damned phone just like that.
I put the phone down. I took my stupid glasses off and rubbed my face hard with my palms, "Fuck me. Fuck me for sure." I glanced at my haggard face in a mirror. I sat down somewhere.
I just sat there.
"Fuck man. What a bitch."
A thought flashed into my head: I wondered if I would call her sometime in the near future. As fast as that thought flashed into my head, it was gone, and I was thinking about something else.
A couple months later, she popped into my head. One millisecond later, she popped out of my head.
Years later, she might have popped into my head, but I couldn't be sure. How can one be sure about such things?
Some time later--probably years--I stared into my mirror (I had bought it with money earned, so it was mine). I looked at my face. I took off my glasses. I rubbed my face hard, and it felt good. I leaned closer into the mirror. I admired my full head of hair. I was thirty-five years old. I was handsome, as I'd always be.
"Who am I?"
"Honey! We have to go! We're going to be late!" My beautiful wife's breathtaking voice joyfully bounced off the tall walls of our massive and massively elegant mansion and reached and soothed and massaged my thirty-five year old ears. Her face flashed in my mind--my wife's face that is.
Leaning closer to the mirror, "Who am I?"
She floated into our bright, fresh, airy room, like a good wind, "We're going to be late, and you're the guest of honor?"
"Showing up late is showing up early. You know that," I smiled at her.
"Let's go," she kissed onto my lips.
"Let's stay here and have sex," I countered.
"After. Let's do that after. The limo is waiting, and the champagne is on ice," she was so happy, and she loved me perfectly and as much as is humanly possible (that is she loved me maximally), and my love for her was equal in measure. This was the truth. Let no man or woman doubt it. We loved no others, as we loved each other, and we never would; and neither could we either; nor would we ever want to. EVER.
"Okay, I'll be right down. Wait for me in the car. I'll lock up."
"Hurry," she hugged me hard and kissed my left cheek. She floated away. She looked perfect, as all heaven. I waited until I bet myself that she was in the car.
I stared at the mirror, without expression on my face, "Who am I?"
Madness.
I knew she would always love me.
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