"I'm approaching Victorville, and all is well. I thought I'd call earlier than I said, so you could crash soon."

"Thanks; I'll see you in the morning, Dear."

"I'll probably be in around 11:00; I'm taking it easy, here. No rush. I'm just listening to music and sipping my McDonald's coffee."

"Good; just drive safe."

I creep into the condo very close to 11:00, kiss him on the cheek, and whisper very softly, my voice overpowered by the sound of his sleep machine. "Don't ever leave me like that again, okay?"

He shifts slightly in his bed, which to me suggests a feeling of culpability—a consciousness of guilt.

"Traipsing across the desert like that for eight days on some quixotic mission to get some old white-haired Senator elected President? For heaven's sake . . . what were you thinking?" I continue, softly.

He denies none of it—damning evidence that he realized from the beginning that it might turn into a huge waste of time.

Hey: everyone is a revisionist historian in his/her interpersonal relationships. I just like to start early.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 12:21 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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