I throw myself backwards and groan as my head hits my bed. I've been sitting here for what feels like, and probably actually has been, hours and I think I might just go mental if I have to write one more sentence about the mayor's missing dog. My thoughts start to drift to questions about whether or not going insane would make my poetry better, then I hear my phone buzz and nearly knock my drink onto my laptop in my rush to grab it. It's a text from Jean. I feel myself deflate, blowing a strand of hair out of my face as I respond, and I can't help but feel a little ridiculous at my own enthusiasm as I do. Reese and I have been going out at least twice a week for the past three months and texting every minute in between. It feels funny to say it, but I've fully come to rely on him to break up the monotony of my workload and the varying versions of the same three terrible articles Jean has been assigning me since I started working for her. And, admittedly, I have been eagerly awaiting a text back since this morning. I feel utterly foolish as I turn my phone off and then on again as if that will make a new message appear. I remind myself that he /also/ has a job and that /I/ should be taking this time to do the work I've been procrastinating on for mine.
"He will text me back when he has the time." I remind myself aloud, as if that makes the worry in my head any less tangled. I briefly considered calling Fran, but I don't think I'm up for the earful I know I'd get from her for forgetting to call her /last/ week. I still feel guilty about that. I shake the worry tangle free as I maneuver my legs into a vaguely comfortable position and drag my computer into my lap as I throw myself back in my work, however mind numbing it might be at the moment. I catch myself leaning over to turn on my bedside lamp and, when I look up, the sun is setting outside on the balcony. Good old redirection, it's never failed me yet. It's eleven when I next let myself check the clock and, despite myself, my notifications. No new text. I wonder why that bothers me so much. I shake that thought off as I close my computer and set it on the table, knocking my empty cup into the trash alongside it. I've always been a sociable person, it's how I was raised, but I've never actually had many close friends and definitely never had any that I could talk to the way I talk to Reese. Unless you count Fran. I think I probably shouldn't count Fran. I sprawl out and let my thoughts run around my head, hoping they'll tire me out. They do.
It's become routine to check my phone for new texts when I wake up, and the next morning is no different. There's a handful from Jean, I audibly groan at those, and one from Fran, but none from Reese. I think that makes me upset. I try not to think any harder on that. Instead, I roll out of bed and tuck my laptop into its bag before heading out to work. I stop to get my usual smoothie on the way, nearly dropping it when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Another text from Jean. I finally bring myself to open them and let out another groan. I'd submitted my article last night hoping she'd have too much to do in the morning to do any nitpicking, but clearly I was wrong. She'd been non-stop texting me her notes and opinions since this morning and I find myself wondering how she has so much time to nit-pick and still run the paper. I think I'm lacking the energy to deal with her this early in the morning, so I send back a thumbs up as I leave the cafe and let my mind wander some more before I have to force myself back into work. I try not to think about these last few months, but they seem to be the only thing my mind is capable of thinking about at present and I've never been very adept at wrangling it in.
So, I think about the last few months and, naturally, that leads me to think about Reese. I think about him for a few minutes before the worry starts to tangle. He generally takes his time to respond, he takes his time in most things as far as I can tell, but this past week he's been particularly un-responsive. I can't help but wonder if I did something wrong. I can tell that if I carry on like this the worry ball will only wind itself tighter, so I harden my resolve. And, by that I mean I grab my phone and call Fran. I feel slightly bad, noting that it's already eight and must be egregiously late where she is, but I also know that, were she here, she would tear into me for not phoning her. She picks up after two rings. Of course she does, it's Fran.
"M'ello?" Someone very groggy picks up and it takes me less than a second to realise that this wasn't Fran. Perhaps it was the Spanish accent that tipped me off. I feel the ball wind tighter as I worry something might have happened to her.
"Who are you?" I demand in my best 'I mean business voice,' although I imagine the panic in my voice undercut the intimidation, "where's Fran?!"
"Wh-? Oh, you're Franny's cousin, right? Mmh, Samual, I think." I heard what I confusedly assumed was sheets rustling followed by tired groaning and the strangers soft voice, "Love, it's Sam. He's on the phone." Love? The panic subsides, but it's only replaced by a massive amount of confusion. I felt the worry immediately start to unwind as I heard Fran's sleepy voice on the other end,
"Mmh, Sam? What's wrong?" She yawned and I felt a twinge guilty for waking her up, but it was quickly overrun by confusion.
"Who was that who answered your phone? I thought you'd gotten rid of your roommate?"
"Oh, umm.." The hesitation in her voice stung in a way I couldn't quite place. Since when did we hesitate to tell each other things? "That was Sofia. She's my-" He heard muffled talking, laughter, then Fran's voice again, "my partner."
"Oh." I said, because I am truly a virtuoso. A bard to the bone. No wonder I was a poet, with this level of eloquence it'd be a crime not to. I must have gone into my own head for a tad too long because Fran yawned and asked if I was still there, "Yes. I'm still here."
"Well, did you need something?" For a moment, I considered saying no and hanging up. Perhaps it was petty, but clearly she'd been withholding things from me, so why shouldn't I have my own secrets? However, nothing ever felt quite as relaxing as pouring my heart out to Fran. So I did.
We talked for a few hours until she seemingly couldn't keep herself awake, then we said goodnight.
That night I went to sleep with a calm head and dreamed of Honey Buns.
YOU ARE READING
Cinnamon, Blueberries, & Other Subjects to fill a Book of Poetry
RomanceSam is nervous, passionate and more than a little naive. All long limbs and not enough confidence to take up space with them. A secret lover of poetry who could never bring himself to leave his religious small town despite feeling smothered by it al...
