11
Eventually, there came a day where I blew a fuse. I don't even remember the exact occasion that pissed me off so much. But it was serious enough to make me realize that the willingness to be strung about by Peter's hollow words, his callous attitude, and flimsy promises were ostensibly with a limit in mind, and I was just finding the end of mine.
It could have been one of many things and if I were to make a guess I'd probably arrive at one of those horrible evenings in the sloppy wetness of the heavy Manhattan rain. For whatever reason, we'd both made plans prematurely about going to an Indian place for dinner somewhere in the Kips Bay area earlier in the day, and mainly due to there being a blackout in the building and the fact that it was raining already, I decided to head out first since he'd called me earlier saying he'd be there soon once he managed to tie up some unrelated business on his end. The unfortunate thing, however, was that the rain had turned everything dreary and downcast in the streets and the massive garbage bags on the curbsides were accentuated further through that nasty putrid smell hanging in the moist air. And later, while I happened to be sitting on the steps of the apartment building opposite the Indian cuisine, I took in these smells, crunching my nose in disgust as a couple of pedestrians ran by me holding newspaper magazines over their head, no doubt in an attempt to escape the crashing downpour. The little car headlights and neon billboards reflected off of the wet concrete, their red blue purple lights swimming in my vision as I scrolled through my phone trying, in vain, to ascertain if Peter had called me yet.
He never showed up that night and while I could have waited there for him for another hour, or at least if not waited, gone into the shop and had dinner myself, and had it not been for the rain I even might have. I pretty much knew there was no point in doing so. I knew he'd forgotten about me and no amount of phone calls on my part would remind him of his priorities, and that was only if he picked up the damn phone in the first place.
If not before, it was becoming more and more evident to me now that despite how strongly I felt towards him, there was only so much I could do to not feel unequivocally down in the dumps every time he left me hanging. In fact, it might have been the case that because I cared so much, it felt even worse when he wouldn't pick up my calls, or he'd disappear in the middle of one, or even when he'd do something as simple as leave my texts unanswered despite having clearly read them. Again, perhaps it's just a touch of dramatic flair on my part, but he was slowly morphing into a poisoned chalice in my life – sweet to drink from but hard to digest - and maybe that was the reason why I started avoiding him.
It felt like the right decision at the time – in a way it was the only one available - and I didn't do it outrightly, or as some kind of staunch display to prove a point or anything remotely of the kind. No, I was adamant about being tactful and subtle in how I went about it. For instance, I still talked to him, still commingled with him in the habitat of the Compton, made sure to keep my overall chirpiness the same around him as it had always been to allay suspicions from creeping in, and when the occasion called for it went out with him, sometimes alone and sometimes in the company of Harry, just to maintain that level of loose and goose vibe between us that suggested that everything was as it should be. But it wasn't because I was already pulling away, detaching myself from the carousel of emotions, extricating my being very carefully from the relationship that was inevitably always letting me down. It wasn't easy by any means even though it may seem like it from the way I'm talking about it – it seems simple and elegant in writing. But I remember how difficult that period was, where I had to act a certain way while internally holding onto completely opposite thoughts in my head. And it certainly took a long time for it to start paying some form of a dividend in return because, by the end of two months, we were barely talking that much.
It wasn't ideal, and I never wanted to resort to such drastic tactics, though, in all honesty, the vitriolic fog of being constantly let down by Peter had forced me down this path, and now that I wasn't in his proximity anymore, that cloud had somewhat lifted off of my shoulders. That isn't to say it was all rosy all of a sudden. The relief was of a perfunctory nature because I still had to see him every time I crossed the threshold of my door at the Compton. The distance between us may have varied over the last year or so but the physical distance separating us had remained unalterably the same. We were despite all my quiet protestations and disappointments, still next-door neighbors, and it was that part of the equation that proved vital in the end. Because time and again, on my way to classes or evening rehearsals or a night out with friends, I'd pass by his door and while he wasn't always there, there were a few times I'd find him leaning against it with his arms folded, a lopsided smile on his lips as he no doubt lay in wait to have a quick conversation with me. And I'd entertain his expectant look with a smile of my own and a few passing remarks. Neither of us would mention during those five minutes - at the end of which I'd run down the stairs without so much as a second glance or a wave towards him - why I'd been leaving his messages on read, or why I'd cut down our interactions from what used to be hours to mere seconds in a day, or why I'd been missing his calls so frequently lately.
No, none of those things would be brought up at all because there were no more aspersions or doubts to be cast on the fact that I was, for all intents and purposes, maintaining a wide unassailable berth around him. And certainly, he knew it just as much as I did.
The question was – What would he do about it?