You held my hand at the movies tonight and told me that I looked wonderful. Halfway through the commercials, I informed you that I was dying of “thirstation” and you gladly helped me to my feet and walked me into the foyer to buy me a diet coke. During one of the scenes, someone broke a glass and I jumped. You squeezed my hand and told me that it was ok; I had no need to worry, because you would protect me. You laughed at all the right times, and held me close during the intense scenes. We both protested the lame ending for an otherwise fantastic movie, while you walked me out of the theater. You saw me to my car and waited patiently for me to unlock to the door, and start the engine. You leaned in and softly kissed me, and whispered “goodnight.” You promised that you would call me tonight when I got home. I drove home, elated, and parked my car. I quietly opened the door to my house, and walked to my room, closing the door softly. I got ready for bed, stealing glances at my phone to make sure that I wouldn’t miss your call. The screen stayed dim, waiting for someone to contact my number. I finally plugged it in, and set it on my night stand with the ring tone set to the loudest volume. I fell asleep staring at my phone, waiting for you to call. You called at three thirty in the morning, hoping that I was asleep. I answered my phone groggily, and listened to you as you explained that although you had a fun time tonight, there was a girl that you like better. You’re sorry, but you can’t be seeing me anymore. You said goodbye, and I hung up the phone. I thought you were different, but it turns out that you were just like everyone else.
Just Like Everyone Else
August 7, 2010