I hate that he sounds so concerned, because it makes me want to believe that he cares about me. It makes me want to admit that I’m not all right, that I miss him, that I’ve missed him every moment since I walked away from him.
“I’m fine.” I say through the sudden thickness in my throat. Somewhere in my brain, there’s the knowledge that I had a reason for calling, but I can’t seem to remember.
We’re both silent. I search for words, desperate to say something, to communicate anything other than how affected I am just by the sound of his voice.
“I was just thinking about you.” He says softly.
My chest suddenly feels too tight. I hate myself for how those words make me feel. I hate the hope that soars in my heart at the simple announcement, and the urge to convince myself that he wouldn’t be thinking about me unless he cared.
“David...” I begin tentatively, unsure what I’m going to say. My emotions are all over the place. I’ve never been so confused. He has only said a few words, but he’s already succeeded in stirring my memories, my body, and my heart.
Get real sweetheart, this has always been about sex.
The recollection of his cruel words pulls me out of my traitorous, yearning thoughts. I’m being a fool, I realize, in allowing myself to want him so much it colors my reasoning. Of course, he doesn’t care about me. He doesn’t love me. He told me so himself, and there no reason to assume otherwise just because he has a voice that sounds like temptation.
“You can’t keep sending me money.” I say abruptly, forcing all the yearning and desire from my mind. “I already told you I don’t want anything from you.” Except your love, I add silently.
When he replies, his voice is brusque. “I won’t argue about this, Sophie,” He says, “The money is yours.”
“Why?” I retort, annoyed that he would dismiss my request so swiftly. “As I remember, our marriage was always about sex, according to you, and I’d rather not be paid for sex, David.”
“And this is why I finally got a phone call from my darling wife,” he says, with a hint of sarcasm, “to be accused of paying you for sex, in addition to all my other crimes.”
I flinch at his tone. “I’m not accusing you of anything,” I reply stubbornly. “All I’m saying is that I don’t want your money.”
“Then do whatever you want with it.” He says dismissively, sounding annoyed. “You can burn it in the street if you like, along with everything else about me that you now find so distasteful.”
“Maybe I will.” I fling back.
“For God’s sake!” He exclaims exasperatedly. I hear him take a deep breath. “Sophie,” he starts calmly, the anger in his voice suddenly replaced by something else, something soft, and tempting, something I don’t want… can’t bear to hear.
“I shouldn’t have called.” I mutter into the phone, interrupting whatever it was he was going to say, “I don’t know why I thought that anything I want would mean much to you. It never has and it obviously never will.” I sigh. “Goodbye David.”
I end the connection before he can reply.
All of a sudden, I feel tired, weak, and spent. If David can make me feel like this just from a phone conversation, I have to concede that there’s no way I can be hopeful of my chances of getting over him anytime soon.
The rest of the evening is uneventful. I have ample time and opportunity to obsess about the phone call and every word we exchanged. I’m still going over it in my mind when Jan emerges from the back office with a stack of sheets and hands them to me.
They’re all sketches for new designs. Sometimes, he or Larry would have a burst of inspiration and actually produce some new work, which they always ask me to look at.
“What do you think?” He asks as I look through the drawings. They’re not bad, just a little old fashioned. We always put the new designs up on the website, but people hardly order them. Our sales are from people who remember how the old t-shirts made them feel a long time ago, and order the same ones to try to recapture the feeling.
People living in the past, like me.
“They’re good.” I tell Jan. “I like them.”
“Oh well.” He shrugs, looking skeptical. “So…” His tone turns friendly, “What’re you doing tonight? Hot date?”
I almost laugh. “Not really, no.” I say, shaking my head.
He tuts. “Honey,” he says patiently, he calls everybody honey, even the pizza delivery guy, “You can’t nurse a broken heart forever.”
I frown. Is it so obvious then? Can everyone see the pain I’m feeling inside just from looking at me?
I take a deep breath, but before I can respond to what he said, I hear the sound of the door opening, and I look towards the entrance, ready to smile and say ‘Welcome to Empathy Zone!’ but the smile freezes on my face, and for the second time in one day, I lose the ability to breathe.
Chapter Three