Saturday's Storyteller: "I was waiting for you."
by Belinda Roddie
I was waiting for you. We were all waiting for you. You never came. You left a text message on Roger's cellphone, but his battery had died, and even though you had my number and Jessie's number and pretty much everyone else's number, you never called.
We had a birthday pie made for you because you didn't like cake. We counted all twenty-three candles for you. They were dinosaur-shaped candles. I knew if we lighted them, the T-rex's waxy head would melt into a blob of what it once was. Still, it was the thought that counted.
Roger only got to read the text message after we emptied a bottle of bourbon together and left for our respective apartments. He told me you didn't explain why you couldn't come, only that you couldn't come, and you couldn't change plans. I knew, somehow, that it was because of her. I knew that it was because she had pulled you away somewhere, where the neon was acid pink instead of radiant, and she shoved shot after shot of absinthe down your throat. I knew that she fucked you silly, and you didn't even laugh.
Tell me, when was a club with a broken air conditioner and overly expensive booze more of a priority than your own birthday party? Or were you too engrossed in her eyes whose color was only remarkable due to contacts?
I tried calling you the next morning, but you didn't answer your phone. I tried texting you after chatting with Roger, but you decided to ignore that, too. I knew you ignored it because I saw the "Seen at 1:42 PM" in small, apologetic type across my screen. Seen. Seen but not read. There is, indeed, a difference.
I waited for you to come to the door in your loveliest cocktail dress. I wanted to sing the obnoxious birthday song to you. The one we learned as kids, at music camp, when you played piccolo and I trembled on oboe. The double reed was sticky against my tongue. Your lips were even stickier.
It was a s'more pie we made, by the way. Music camp. S'mores. S'more pie. It was appropriate. I was willing to roast another marshmallow with you, and find reconciliation against the plight of dying embers.
Some fires don't die so quickly. So I waited.
You never came. And if you did, you would have been late, and you would have left a stench against my cheek. You only kissed my cheek these days.
I wouldn't have liked the smell of absinthe against my face. But I still waited.
And somehow, in a sick way, I think my birthday plan for you wouldn't change the next year.
I think, sadly enough, I would do it all over again.
This week's prompt was provided by Stephanie Ann Foster.
I was waiting for you. We were all waiting for you. You never came. You left a text message on Roger's cellphone, but his battery had died, and even though you had my number and Jessie's number and pretty much everyone else's number, you never called.
We had a birthday pie made for you because you didn't like cake. We counted all twenty-three candles for you. They were dinosaur-shaped candles. I knew if we lighted them, the T-rex's waxy head would melt into a blob of what it once was. Still, it was the thought that counted.
Roger only got to read the text message after we emptied a bottle of bourbon together and left for our respective apartments. He told me you didn't explain why you couldn't come, only that you couldn't come, and you couldn't change plans. I knew, somehow, that it was because of her. I knew that it was because she had pulled you away somewhere, where the neon was acid pink instead of radiant, and she shoved shot after shot of absinthe down your throat. I knew that she fucked you silly, and you didn't even laugh.
Tell me, when was a club with a broken air conditioner and overly expensive booze more of a priority than your own birthday party? Or were you too engrossed in her eyes whose color was only remarkable due to contacts?
I tried calling you the next morning, but you didn't answer your phone. I tried texting you after chatting with Roger, but you decided to ignore that, too. I knew you ignored it because I saw the "Seen at 1:42 PM" in small, apologetic type across my screen. Seen. Seen but not read. There is, indeed, a difference.
I waited for you to come to the door in your loveliest cocktail dress. I wanted to sing the obnoxious birthday song to you. The one we learned as kids, at music camp, when you played piccolo and I trembled on oboe. The double reed was sticky against my tongue. Your lips were even stickier.
It was a s'more pie we made, by the way. Music camp. S'mores. S'more pie. It was appropriate. I was willing to roast another marshmallow with you, and find reconciliation against the plight of dying embers.
Some fires don't die so quickly. So I waited.
You never came. And if you did, you would have been late, and you would have left a stench against my cheek. You only kissed my cheek these days.
I wouldn't have liked the smell of absinthe against my face. But I still waited.
And somehow, in a sick way, I think my birthday plan for you wouldn't change the next year.
I think, sadly enough, I would do it all over again.
This week's prompt was provided by Stephanie Ann Foster.
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