Second chances are almost a deed long gone and yet,
I gave you one.
And myself, in a strange way, even though it wasn't me who screwed up.
You felt lonely, you say, in the voice which is yours but that so rarely comes through.
And I melt.
My whole plan for staying strong and aloof is but a drawing on a napkin in a weakening pen.
You try to tell me what happened. What the hell did happen back there. You can go as long as you planned but not much more and I have deep questions that do not get satiated with a pre-scripted plan.
I try to milk you for more (and this is, by the way, if you had any suspicion, how you now know) complements, misses, missings, musings, I wants...and hope for a glimpse of it'll get better. You can't give that to me though and the conversation becomes not much more than a rehash past midnight.
I allow you to come up for a visit the following day. That's actually a dignified joke. I want you to come. I want to see you again and talk. And at the same time, I pray that you'll pull the predictable escape and disappear from my iPhone screen, not making it to our date.

It's the next day. When it becomes clear--around 7 or 8--that you aren't going to show, I pour vermouth into my very best crystal, two large cubes of ice, and head to my sparkling kitchen to make dinner. A treat of wild mushroom pasta with roasted pine nuts in a fine wine and butter reduction for a sauce.
I can't help but smile. I amuse myself and I can't decide by what most. Is it my spot on anticipation or by my enduring faith. Did I really think overnight you'd change? I laugh at my idiocy. A magnificent gift of hope...or is it hopelessness?

Next time,I want to say in case you're reading this, when you're home from a trip and you feel all alone, please forget that I'm there and call someone else. It'll make things much easier for you (although much less dramatic, I agree) and much more appealing to me. Should you care. Just in case.

Me.