"i don't want a bunch of deflective therapy gobbledygook," i hear him yell in what my mother could only call an outside voice.
"you overplayed your hand" he continues, louder this time i can almost hear my mother shhhh-ing.
she always hated public outbursts, preferring meltdowns to be done in the privacy of the bathroom with the door closed and the shower on and no one standing underneath to wash in the water.
"you can't just keep talking your way out of it or cloaking yourself in goddamn therapy talk," he shouts. not at me, no, but at whatever soul is on the other end of his airpods.
i shudder and feel the hair on the back of my neck rise. my skin crawls with the type of nostalgia that goddamn therapy talk would refer to as "negative nostalgia" or "nostalgic depression" or, more succinctly, "trauma," or, if you want one letter shorter, "PTSD."
sir, this is a wendy's, i think, as i glance at the 6:38am on my watch and pick up my pace.
it wasn't too long ago that my — once our — morning walks transitioned into solo walks, during which i either pay too little attention to myself (read: headphones blasting) or pay too much attention to others (read: people watching). there is no in between.
"what's redeeming about this? about you?" he barks. "what do you even add to my life?"
he is asking questions to which he should know the answers better and more intimately than anyone else, i presume.
actually, "i assume" is more accurate since i know nothing about this man and whoever is on the other end of the phone and their relationship together. i only know about mine, or what used to be mine.
"i sincerely hope you're proud of yourself," he says and i can't tell if he's being serious or sarcastic.
in that moment, i desperately want headphones but instead i have the type of brain that is incapable of screening out sensory input.
maybe she's a bitch, i think. maybe she loves to play the victim, i think.
or maybe he's the type of guy who always has to tell his next girl that his last girl was crazy, i think — confidently this time.
i wonder if the the girl on the other end of the call feels rage or remorse or resentment.
i wonder if she feels all of the above or nothing at all.
and i wonder if, when the call inevitably ends, she will feel relief or if it will take her two months like it took me.