Worrying About Imagined Loves

So, whatever happened, happened, she

says, on the phone; that we had-

something, which we had better not

give a name to, not right now. Can we get

a move on, please? Shall we decide?

Do we want to be friends, again- that

we can still be, no? Nothing

stops us. I listen-

I let her speak, this torrent of words which

I do not really hear, I am

thinking of my home, my bed, my cupboard, which

is half empty, because

her clothes are not there; the empty glass in the bathroom

with its lonely toothbrush. I am thinking of the time when, hungover

she tried to brush with my shaving cream, I am thinking

of the time when, in a hurry, I sprayed her painkiller

spray all over my body. I am worrying about her backache.

I say yes to everything she tells me, whatever she

thinks I should do. I do not have any answers to her questions, or

the questions her absence poses me. I listen, and listen,

and listen,

counting my seconds, and thanking

someone for every extra second I can hear her voice.