Plenty more fish in the sea
So there I was, minding my own business when out of blue, I get a phone call. Nothing totally out of the ordinary when you think about it, I mean, people get phone calls all the time-friends, relatives, acquaintances, business deals, cold calls, etc, right? It's just that fucked up reformed delinquents don't tend to get too many of the friendly wish-you-were-here-I-miss-you calls, do they? So naturally, I assumed it was either a business call or some twat in a call centre trying to sell me double-glazing. Oh boy how wrong I was. So I pick up the phone, ready to either kiss their ass or flip them off but there's a sort of snuffling, like someone trying to avoid blowing their nose, at the other end of the line and then, Jess? Shit.
It's her. I've never fully understood why her voice has this effect on me. It's just a voice, after all, nothing special, but there's something in the way she says my name that makes my heart practice its Cirque du Soleil party piece and opens the door of my stomach up to every type of butterfly and tells the bouncers to take the night off.
I need a drink. And a smoke. And meaningless sex. Not necessarily in that order. Christ! She's just a girl! Get over it and move on, right? Plenty more fish in the sea and all that jazz? I mean, last time I saw her, it seemed like she was still interested but look how that turned out. Her going off to see Blonde Dick at Yale and me sat alone in the office like the pathetic idiot that I am. I couldn't even enjoy booze for about a month afterwards. I tried to quit smoking. I was practically a monk for god's sake! Now if that isn't pining, I don't know what is 'cause that's all I've got-alcohol, nicotine and sex. And books. But I couldn't take abstaining from books. It would kill me. It would probably kill her too. Just another thing I could do to fuck up her life.
She didn't really want much. Just wanted to talk. Well, what is much, right? 'Cause talking to her is about the last thing I need right now. Not when she still has this stupid fever-pitch effect on me. She'll blow cold again next week. Decide it's too dangerous. All I have to do is wait for the knife in my heart to be twisted again and then I can relax. Have it removed.
I've never really understood how she could move on and I couldn't. Nothing means anything anymore. That's fine with me if I'm honest, I don't really need anyone to mean anything. It's just that, as much as I hate to admit it, she's changed me. I know what I'm missing now. I think I may have loved you but I just need to let it go. Well I should do that too. Let it go. Shouldn't I?
Except I can't.
