I was sitting behind the bed, where the light from the window couldn't find me. The phone, whose wire tangled in between my toes and fingers, rested coldly against my cheek as I listened to him speak. Come over, he would say repeatedly like a vinyl that only had one loop, and I want to see you, he said again and again like the light on the other side of my bed. It was an 'I want to see you, but I won't try to cross to the other side' kind of tone, perhaps the laziest kind of all. And so I told him no, "I can't come over. I have a lot of things to do." Yeah? "Yeah," I told myself as I twirled a strange of unwashed hair, unwashed because there were memories and scents that I was too afraid to lose, "yeah. I have lots of things to care for. I have to feed my cat...and my Facebook fish or he'll die today. Then I need to call my mom and see if she's doing alright without me so far. Later I think I have to hit Cosco for food that will last me another number of months, and there's laundry because the dryer stopped working again and my pants are just wetting my bed..." And then the list becomes a bucket list because the last thing I want to care about is falling in love with you.
