The Subtext Of That Text Is Contested

So a few weeks go by. And he sends another one, just when I've convinced myself that he's taken the hint and ceased. And desisted, for good measure.

An early morning text.  One that comes at 5:30 in the morning.  Only two entities are permitted to text at that hour. Family reporting the untimely and unexpected demise of another family member, and your lover. The dawn's early light should be used only to read the tragic "Don't go to work, so-and-so's carcass needs to be retrieved from the sewer pipe today" messages and the often flirtatious, always fabulous "Good morning beautiful, wish my head were on your pillow" messages.  No other messages are welcome at that hour.

He says he thinks of me often and imagines me with a big smile on my face. He hopes everything is great in my life and wishes me a great day. XO

And again I don't answer.


The text from Scott sits there festering like moldy tub of cottage cheese. Gaseous. Stinking. Ready to explode.


And in the meantime there was a storm.  A big one.  And Hil was worried about Scott and the girls. The last big doozy was the catalyst for his meltdown.  Or so I'd assumed. It also handed the East Coast some of the worst devastation we'd seen in decades.  They even have an annoying little jingle about rebuilding that sends me into fits of rage every time I hear it, in a Pavlovian way.

So as I am prone to do, after a night of wine and Facebooking and blogging and movie watching, I replied. Someone really needs to invent a Breathalyzer for one's phone to prevent such things from happening. The mere whiff of Chardonnay and the texts go into a holding pattern until the person is sober enough to make a competent, thoughtful decision about sending the boozy rants which are undoubtedly riddled with typos and brimming with emotions no one ever hauls out in polite company.

"Scott - It isn't that I don't think about you. I do. And the kids were worried about you during the storm last week. It is just that there is too much that I can not reach past. So this has to stop."

Or something like that. I've erased it.  Again, no need to keep a souvenir from the relationship.  I've also pitched the cards and notes I'd so carefully collected when he'd left them for me in my car or under my pillow or in my lunch bag. I am not sure I even have any pictures left. Our relationship is over and there will be no shrine, thank you.

And since then I've continued to distance myself.  Meet other people. Create a social life for myself. Check for wedding bands on hands of nice men I meet. Keep my heart open to possibilities. Including Craig.  So far all the people I meet seem to serve only one purpose, and that is to make Craig seem more appealing, however hopeless the prospect may appear to be at any given moment. I don't want to get old with nothing more to show for it than a really good friend that I see 10 times a year, even if marriage is off the Bucket List for good.

And Scott sends a random text every once in a while. A simple hello or something similar.  All of which are ignored. (As Priscilla's voice echoes in my head, "Do. Not. Engage!")

And then he sends me one that sends me sailing over the edge of reason.

"Hi, Liza. Are you okay?