Fighting myself

The silent stillness of the night is broken by the piercing sound of the telephone. I know who it is, but check the caller ID anyway. Then I put the pillow over my head to lessen the noise until the machine picks up. I wonder how many times she’ll call.

This is it. This is how I get out.

There are always a few little differences. But they’re mostly the same. She’ll call a few times. I won’t answer. Then finally, I will.

I won’t say much. Just something about how I don’t think this is working out. I can always come up with reasons why. She was just saying the other night how I give her mixed signals and how I’m never there when she needs someone to talk to.

I listen. Or pretend to, anyway. To her incessant ramblings about nothing, night after night. And now she wants to nag and complain about our relationship? Well, fine. Let her see how she likes arguing with herself.

Maybe she’ll cry. Maybe she won’t. I’ll probably wonder if I’m making a mistake. But I’d rather wonder if I left too early than regret hanging on too long.

The phone rings again. But for some reason, this time I answer. I tell her I love her and that I’m sorry.

It’s a small step. And a constant battle.

I haven’t always been this way. But someone hurt me a long time ago.

“The end is coming. She don’t even feel it. It’s a strange sensation. I’m almost happy…”