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I was right to leave. I know I was.
I hope he knows I was.
I
hope he knows how hard it was to walk out the door.
I hope he knows how much it killed me to get in the car and start
the engine.
I hope he knows how I had to fight myself the entire way, how my head and heart had a Platonic dialogue
the whole way back.
I hope he knows that I had no idea where to go.
I hope he knows how much it hurts every
time he shows up on television with that damn group of his. I hope he knows that I know more about him than any of them ever
will.
I hope he knows how much it kills me that he loves them more than he'll ever "love" me.
I hope he knows
how much it killed me every time he said "I love you, too."
I hope he knows how much I wanted that statement to be
true.
I hope he knows that the second to last thing I want after three months of silence--his, mine and ours...my God,
ours--is to see him in a grocery store at two o'clock in the morning.
I hope he knows that the LAST thing
I want is to run right freaking into him in a grocery store at two o'clock in the morning.
Fuck.
"I'm so sor...Chris?"
Deep
breaths. Deep, deep breaths.
Who knew my name could ever sound so good?
"Hi, Alex."
He steps back,
places both hands on my shoulder to steady me and then drops them. No, don't do that...
"Hey. Wow." He gulps.
"You look good."
He's lying, so I might as well return the favor. "You, too."
He doesn't look good. In fact,
he looks like shit. I would feel triumphant if it weren't for the fact that I probably look worse.
Yeah, lots of nights
without sleep or sanctuary will do that to a person.
"How've you been?"
And so begins the conversation of standard
lines in which we pretend to make conversation when all we really want to do is kill each other slowly, softly...with lots
of sex and maybe, maybe a resolution.
"I've been...okay." I still love you and I hate myself for it. "You?
How's the album going?"
He smiles with the corners of his mouth. "The album's going good."
"Well," I correct
absentmindedly. I'm supposed to be picking out Hamburger Helper. THAT'S why I came here.
"Well," he amends. "The album's
going well, and I'm...I'm okay."
Somewhere, deep down inside of me, something is praying that he's
still in love
with me too. That he still hates himself for it. That maybe we could hate ourselves together and be more than "okay" for awhile.
Somewhere,
even deeper, the smart side of me is kicking the hopeful side's ass.
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