Monday Afternoon

I hate him. I don’t know why I call him but I do. When I do I feel my stomach clench up in knots and I feel ugly. When I call him, I feel my face get hot and I sit in my closet to hide. When I call him I wish I wasn’t who I am. When I call him I hate myself.

“Hello,” he says. It’s not a question.
“I hate you,” I say. He’s chewing. This makes me mad.
“I really hate you.”

Silence.

“So what’d you do this weekend?” He asks me. He thinks I’m pathetic. He thinks I have no friends. I am pathetic. I have only very few friends.
“What’d you do this weekend?” I sound like a child.
“On Friday Joe Vito had a surprise party.”
“Why are you hanging out with that asshole?” I demand. I’ve never met Joe Vito.

Silence.

“And how can he throw himself a surprise party? That’s really stupid.” I’m stupid. I’m angry.
“His friends threw it for him,” he says. He sounds bored.
“Oh,” I say. I try to say it angrily but it sounds flat.

“What did you do? Anything?” he asks me. He thinks I didn’t do anything. He thinks he has a better life than me. He goes to parties, and I do not. He thinks I’m lame. I’m lame.

“Well lets see,” I say. “On Friday I went with Mike to apply for jobs.” I spit the name at him. This might make him jealous.
“On Saturday I hung out with my sister,” I say. It sounds boring. “It was really nice,” I add. In fact, I had a lot of fun with my sister. But my sister isn’t a party with girls in little shirts and tight jeans. So he thinks he wins.
“And I just can’t remember what I did yesterday.” Uh oh, I think. This sounds like I did nothing. In fact, I did do nothing. I didn’t do anything. I pet my dog a lot.

“Sounds like a good weekend,” he says. He’s not sarcastic, but his lack of sarcasm is sarcastic. I hate him.
“I hate you.”
“So I’ve heard.” I hear him flush the toilet. I hate him.
“Well I’ve got to go to class soon,” he says. “I’m just giving you the heads up.”
He always has to go first. He knows I hate this.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let me prepare myself for the withdrawal I’ll feel when we hang up.” I let the sarcasm saturate my voice, like grease on potato chips. I eat too many potato chips.

Silence.

“Oh by the way, ‘On the Road’ is a stupid book. I don’t know how you liked it.”
“It’s good,” he says. He thinks it’s cool because the book is about a lot of pseudo-intellectual, existentialist womanizers who do nothing but drink, screw around, and ponder the meaning of life. He thinks this is cool. He thinks he is cool. He is not cool.

“You think you’re so cool.” I almost sneer.
“Who’s forcing you to read it?” he asks.
“Well I’m gonna read it. I’m gonna finish it. ”
“So read it.”
“I will.”

Silence.

“I hate you.”
“You’re very pretty. I miss you.”
My stomach has butterflies, which quickly turn into stomach cramps.
“You disgust me,” I say.
“I know,” he says.

Silence.
“Do any coke today?” I ask. It’s 3:30 in the afternoon.
“Nope.”
He’ll probably do it later.
“I’m so disappointed in you,” I tell him. My voice sounds softer. Sadder.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.

“Hello?” he asks. “Are you okay?”
“Did you hear what I said?” He never listens. He’s probably watching King of Queens. He thinks that show is funny. That show is not funny.
“You said you are disappointed in me.”
“Does that sound like I’m okay?”
“No,” he says. It sounds like he’s typing. He’s probably talking to someone online. A girl. Or he’s looking at porn. I hate him.

Silence.
“I miss you,” he says.
I scoff. “Please,” I say. “You don’t miss me.”
“I do. I think about you nonstop.”
“You are a waste of life.”
“Okay.”
He doesn’t try to make me like him again.
One time he said, you’ll never break up with me. The arrogant, narcissistic bastard. He was wrong. One time I told him I’d never stop loving him. That was before he said, you’ll never break up with me.

“Well I have to go,” he says.
“Whatever.” I hang up the phone before he does it first. When he hangs up first he thinks he wins.

I put the phone down and lean back on my bed. My mouth has a metallic taste and I realize I’ve been biting on my cheek. I’m swallowing my blood. I think about the way it was before. I think about the way it is now. I feel sick.

I call him back.
“I regret calling you. I hate you so much.”
“Really?” he asks.
“Maybe.”
I hang up.
He doesn’t care.
I think about getting up. I think about walking around. I think about petting my dog. But mostly I just wait.