Confessions of a Thinkaholic

Oh my God!

The silence. This silence. This awkward silence between us. What does it mean? Perhaps, I should not have picked up. But the ringing…

The ringing is so insistent when it’s you. So I can’t ignore it. I know it’s you. I somehow always know it’s you. The numbers change but the ring is still the same.

What exactly is it that you want? I thought we figured out long ago that there was nothing, absolutely nothing I could help you with but here you are again on the other end. You made things this way but you are searching for your way in and you’re not welcome here anymore.

You want to see how I’m doing. The answers come to me automatically.

“I am fine. Thank you.”

“And you?” tacked on to be polite.

I’m good,” you say, your voice weary.

With what? Weary with the weight of calling yet again, not knowing, never knowing what to expect but expecting anyway.

Then silence. I play with the phone cord hoping that you’ll tell me why you keep doing this to me.

“Can we talk…” you eventually ask.

Can we talk? Of course we can. We are. It’s not that we can’t talk. It’s that we won’t talk. Your guilt and my hatred suffocate us every time. The silence speaks for itself. Every time I speak to you I go through a bevy of emotions. Sometimes, it’s annoyance but now, right now its anger. There are so many reasons why. Today though, it’s because you remind me of a man I once loved. You sound like him right now in your vulnerability and you say my name like he used to. But this is not for him. His turn at occupying my time, my mind, my thoughts – is over. It’s your turn for these few moments that we sit here – you at your job, me at mine, both of us wondering about this silence and who will save us from it.