the heel press

This is awkward. His eyes are blazing through me incredulously, and I fidget around thinking that I've done something wrong.

"So, uh... yeah..." I fill the air with nervous laughter... it's an amazing remedy to awkward situations.

"I'm," he chokes, "I'm so sorry."

What do I say to that?! Do I say, "it's okay"? No! Because it's not okay! It's not okay that every time I cross the street, a suicidal thought violates my mind. It's not okay that his smile, the one that motivated and soothed me, is now an eerie image that stalks my nightmares. It's not okay that this guy in front of me woke up this morning in the arms of a sexually indiscriminant woman that has provided him comfort since we broke up. It's not okay that I woke up alone, with a tearstained pillow, and a heavy heart.

"Um, thanks," I shrug. The silence is thick, and heavy.
"So, um... I have to go," I lie.
"Oh yeah, he replies, "hey, call me if you need anything..." his sincerity is nauseating.
"Thanks," I lie again and we part.

Why would I call him? Why would I call anybody for that matter? Most of my friends have gotten used to me not being around, physically or mentally, because I've been off with Mr. Right. I simply didn't need my friends very much anymore, because Mr. Right intrigued me, entertained me, and loved me.

Two weeks ago, Mr. Right died of cancer.

So, now I toss aside my list of names for our unborn children, my mental deed to our retirement vineyard in Tuscany, and begin to leaf through the phone numbers of people who were minor characters in the story of Mr. Right and Me. Call somebody? How dare I? My first girlfriend in my phonebook: "Adriana..." and our conversation?

"Hey Dre, it's me."
"Oh, um... hey... what's up?" Her speech is slow and skeptical.
"Uh, well... you know that guy I was obsessed with?"
"The one that you abandoned us for? The one that has caused you to neglect our friendship since you've first met him?"
"Yeah, him... well... he's dead... can you help me with feeling sad because he's gone?"
"..."

Calling people to help you grieve is demeaning, depressing, and blatantly painful. If you get a call from somebody who is grieving, you should know that it is quite possible that they are on the brink of self-annihilation. It may seem overdramatic, selfish, and irrational, but the grief-stricken should not be looked upon as a picture of mental health.

As I strive daily to pay attention in class, to be at work on time, to get out of bed, to be normal... there are those who meet me where I am. I am always uncomfortable, always on the verge of tears, always easily provoked. But then, there are friends who sit with you. They don't say "call me if you need anything," rather, they imply "I'm calling you, you don't want to need anything... but I know you do."

These people sacrifice their own comfort zones to listen to somebody that won't talk, and are prepared to get to know you all over again. They are patient and understanding, even when your conversations consist of nothing more than heavy sighs that break the suffocating silence.

Inspired by their encouragement, I pursue normality by showering, and going to the grocery store. Inevitably, I run into my ex-boyfriend Jon, and we begin to speak... in our secret language:

"Hey!" we say in fake excited unison ("I hate that I'm talking to you still")
"How's Kristin?" ("I want to keep track of the whore that you've been sleeping with since the week after we broke up")
"She's good," ("We're not going to talk about this... grow up!")
"Good," ("I don't really care")
"How's Giuseppe?" ("I've heard all about how 'great' he is, and I quell my jealousy with the knowledge that it's only a matter of time before he dumps you")
"Oh... um..." ("...")
"What happened?" ("Crap")
"He actually passed away recently," ("I wish I'd passed away before this conversation")

So, after my fake gratitude, I leave Jon standing there stupidly with his shopping cart full of frozen foods. I rush into my car, scrambling for my keys, and try to jam them into the ignition before I lose it. It was futile. Tears spill out onto my steering wheel, and I let out the sobs until my paroxysms are under control. Wiping my eyes, I back out of the parking lot, and set my mind into work mode. Be normal. Breathe.

After work, I'm partaking in my new favorite mind-numbing technique: a glass of red wine, and a white wall... sip, stare, swallow, and repeat. My phone rings, it's Jon:

"Hi," I hear my bemused voice say. ("Why are you calling me?")
"Hi," ("I have no idea")
There is silence, and I breathe deeply so that I can end the silence the best way I know how:
*Sigh* ("Thanks for calling")
*Sigh* he responds. ("You're still a human being")
("Yes... that's true")