Texting

A Story by tarnsman

A look into what might be the final days of the only real love affair I've ever had.

Texting

It’s amazing how much we’ve texted. Every day, all day, back and forth for years. Three years. Three incredible years, the happiest of my life. I’ve gotten used to waking up to a message from you. You’ve never slept well. That in addition to your penchant for socializing into the wee morning hours meant I was often in bed before you. Sometimes I’d send you a goodnight text �" usually something short.

“Goodnight Marissa. Please be safe. I love you.”

Sometimes I’d skip it, but only if you already hadn’t replied to several of my previous texts. I never wanted you to feel harassed.

The first thing I do every morning is reach for my phone. The current iteration is a Samsung Galaxy Note III, and it vibrates when you pick it up if there’s an unread text. That subtle movement against the palm of my hand is enough to excite me, to bring a smile to my face. There’s a long moment between when my fingers close around the cold glass of the magic rectangle and when I swipe the screen with the index finger of my right hand. In those couple seconds it’s possible that the text isn’t from you. It could still be from someone who doesn’t matter.

My heart rises when I see your name. I feel warm, happy, cared for. Valued. Once again I’m validated by our interaction. My day is already off to a tremendous start.

This morning when I reached for my phone it didn’t vibrate. I didn’t really expect it to, but hope isn’t always rational. The shadow of that hope is still there as I press the silvered metal power button. The screen lights up and my heart sinks. Nothing. A grim little smile sets in as I check Twitter. “This is why you grabbed your phone,” some part of my consciousness seems to suggest. I guess there’s some truth to it. The Ultimate Fighting Championship held an event in New Orleans last night. Dan Henderson, a true legend of the sport, fought arguably the best wrestler Maine has ever produced. A couple years ago I probably would have stayed up, but I’m getting tired of watching people get their brains damaged for not enough money. I still care enough to follow the results, though.

Twitter is my favorite way to discover the outcome of a fight card. The app will open where you left it, and I feel something of the tingle of watching fights live as I scroll through the reactions of the MMA community chronologically. It’s a good excuse, but it isn’t why I checked my phone.

A few weeks ago I would have put my phone down (or maybe not), jerked off, and rolled out of bed to pack the first bowl of the day. I’d be high for the rest of the day if possible. It’s easier not to think about you when I’m stoned.

No more. Today I skip the morning masturbation, grab the old copy of Rogue States from my desk and head for the den. It’s the best place for reading in my house �" intentionally so. There are two luxuriously comfortable brown leather armchairs facing each other parallel to the fireplace and bookshelves line the opposing wall. It’s my favorite room in the house.

It’s a little before 7 and the lake in my backyard appears to be steaming. The golden Florida sun kisses the water. It glistens as if covered in innumerable diamonds. The French doors leading from the den to the patio are wide open. Birds call, and a gentle breeze blows through the cattails that grow in the shallows near the shore. It’s a beautiful morning indeed.

I’m f*****g miserable.

Chomsky’s illuminating words on the history and character of US foreign policy can’t hold my interest. I can’t focus. My mind is continually pulled back to my dark room, to the phone now charging on my desk. I wonder if you’ve texted me back. No, of course you haven’t, it’s much too early for you to be up on a Sunday. Refocus. My right hand is a little cold, so I stuff it under the pillow on my lap. Refocus. I start playing with myself without realizing it. Chomsky mentions Peruvian liberation theology and my mind turns to your luscious Latina a*s, your smooth thighs, the sweet scent of your sex as I bury my head between your legs…

Refocus.

It’s no use. I put the book down with a snort of disgust. The wannabe scholar still isn’t as far removed from his days as a horny schoolboy as he’d like to believe.

I trudge back to my room. The modest ‘70s home I share with my mother is open plan, so only one door stands between me and my one connection to you. With every step the feeling of anticipation in the pit of my stomach grows. Again, hope is not rational. I tell myself again that you almost certainly have not texted back as my hand closes around my doorknob. I’ve gotten better at managing my expectations, but I’m still not perfect.

I know as soon as I open the door that you haven’t responded. The Note III has a small light in the top left corner that changes colors to provide information about the phone’s status. When you plug it into the charger the light turns red. When it finishes charging the light turns green. If you have an unread text the light blinks blue.

The light is red. I cross the small room and press the wake up button anyway. Just to be sure.

It’s hard to say how many times I’ll do this today. Probably a thousand. Maybe more. I shake my head slightly as I turn my back on the source of my disappointment. “Pathetic,” I whisper to myself, “Absolutely pathetic.”

I need to smoke.

I take a right as I leave my room, emerging from the hall of pictures after a couple strides. The front door is on my immediate right, and next to that a wall of near floor to ceiling windows let in plenty of natural light at the expense of privacy. There’s an enormous mirror on the wall that separates my room from the main area of the house where we cook and eat. I pause in front of it for a second, noting how my once lean and muscular frame has softened and shrunk over the past six months. It’s difficult to train hard when I’m depressed.

The obvious decline of my physique steels my resolve to remain cannabis clean. I’m tired of moving backwards. It isn’t just my body I’ve neglected; my mind is also starting to suffer. My normally encyclopedic memory is basically nonexistent these days. I can’t effortlessly call on facts in the heat of debate like I used to. Even my vocabulary is starting to desert me, swept away by a relentless flood of THC.

I want to be powerful again.

I turn away from the mirror and amble back to the den. I’m still too on edge to read, but I don’t feel like doing kettlebells this early. I don’t really feel like doing anything other than texting you. I won’t though. I have to give you time.

Time, time, time. Lately time has been about the only thing I’ve been able to give you. You don’t want much else from me.

The last message I sent you was an important one. In many ways it represents the last of my hope. I can quote it from memory because I’ve reread it probably a hundred times since I sent it to you the night before last.

“I want to come up again if you’ll let me. I heard what you said to me on Wednesday, but I can’t let you go without at least once looking you in the eyes and honestly telling you how I feel. After that if you still feel the same I’ll leave you in peace. It will only take an hour or two.”

It has been approximately 36 hours since I hit send on what could potentially be my last attempt to save our relationship. I haven’t texted you since. No Snapchat, either. No communication at all. I’m done pressuring you. We both agree that three years of that was enough. All I can do now is wait. And hope.