Red

One year when I was in uni, on this saint valentines day holiday thing, i received a dozen red roses. The card said I am sorry, please forgive me, and i hope to talk to you soon. with out a name attached.

I had woken up that day, lonely, insecure and depressed. As usual. And as usual having my morning coffee and cigarette out the balcony, looking at the other balconies around me, a balmy, moist typical hazy morning in dallas. The cars and traffic were honking and roaring down the road. Inexorably my thoughts dashed into the room with the plaque Recent Ex Boyfriend on it. It was wear i liked to spend most of my time those days. My friends tried to get me to get out, but my misery was a drug. I had wondered who he was sending flowers to, calling, thinking about, taking out to dinner; wondering if his thoughts even dwelled on my at all, his valentines the year before.

Trying to do some homework around the flat, i continued to subsist on coffee and cigarettes, answering some questions here, reading some chapters in textbooks there. And then the doorbell rings. And i answer the door feel shock when i take the delivery of 12 beautiful deep red roses; at the time sweet although now i would have called the choice of generic red, tacky and without style. But then it was a salve to my insecurity wounds, hopelessly open for all to see.

I read the card with more shock. He didn't sign his name, but who else could it be? Euphoria, confusion, hope and negativity borne of confidenceless coursed through my system. A new drug, one of hopefully confusion. I thought and I thought sitting there on the couch in pajamas that i had been wearing for days. Why, who, does this mean he is not seeing anyone? He and I had been in odd contact here and there;mostly late night calls from him, talking, wanting to come over, and me mostly saying yes. Of course I was crying off and on. He meant everything to me then, even having caused so much pain by saying he didn't like me enough to want to be my boyfriend. And then the see saw. well maybe. well maybe not.

Time stopped flowing whilst i thought of these things while my emotions formed a typhoon around me.

And then I decided to call a person that I wanted to share my confusion, hurt and hope with. Someone whose opinion i respected. Someone who would look out for me no matter what happened. When i examine that moment, that precise space when the thought to do this came into my head, it is empty. I do not understand why i dialed the number; the person i was then is so very different to now that i cannot empathise with the choice. its fundamentals escape me, much like i am constantly escaping the girl that i was then. a guess would be that i was subconsciously calling on protection from the emotional elements.

My father picked up the phone. I told him what had happened. I voiced my confusion. I asked him how to proceed. He knew this guy had broke things off with me, I was horribly depressed afterwards, and that i still had feelings. I do not remember what my dad said to me. I just remember that i called him; and cried. and expressed my feelings.

On whose advice, my own or my fathers, i do not know why i chose to hold off contacting him. And actually, i had to see him at a class early that evening.

Later that day, i got a call. it was from Pete, who I had been on a date with a month back. He sponsored an entry in the book of worst dates. Pete and i went for dinner and drinks with his friends; he left to go to the loo with one of the females and did not come back for 45 minutes. When they returned it was clear that they had been together (because from the tension at the table during that time, i might not have figured it out). Pete then became so inebriated that i had to have him pull over the car on the drive home, drive myself home, and have him sleep on my couch. Pete called me to ask if the flowers helped in respect of forgiving him. And could he see me again. The typhoon that earlier embroiled me once again took hold; but this time in a counter direction.

In the evening i went to class, as usual putting on my armor so that no one would notice how deep my wounds were. i was ashamed, not only for my usual level of hurt but that i had jumped and wanted to desperately, to the conclusion that recent ex was contacting me and still had feelings for me. At class, as always, the ex and i sat with one friend in between us, and the other surrounding us; ignoring each other but for polite nods at the beginning. Bitter and bizarrely, he and I were wearing the exact same thing; red shirt, brown leather belt with jeans, and cole haan loafers. Both our eyes widened with embarrassed horror (although i retrospect the outfit choice causes horror, but, you know, early 90s). Part of your brain searched for a meaning in this synchronicity, like a crutch. Worn down and raw, i attempted to be silly about the situation, and said something in a faux cheery voice, like, Stephen, you look so great, so valentiney.. oh wait so do i! good thing red both suits us. I hope that at some point during class my face ceased to match the shirt.