you said you'd call but never said when. well you did: Sunday, but for one guarding by her phone all day, hands constantly feeling her pocket, "Sunday" was too vague.
everything i did revolved around the phonecall. actually, even less -- it was the potential of one, the anticipation for one. phone in pocket? or phone in bag? loud? or ring and vibrate? or just vibrate? oh, phone's vibrating. do i check? or do i not? if i do i might look like i'm distracted from work. now i'm actually distracted because it's vibrating but i can't do anything about it. there's a voicemail, might it be you? now i wish i were going on break soon so i can check.
why did you say "Sunday" not "Sunday morning" or "Sunday afternoon"? Just one more word could have allowed me to preserve half of my day. Instead, those seconds of checking my phone and heart leaping at a call not from you split my minutes, hours and day into thousand pieces of you in my mind wedged between pieces of the me that i knew -- the me that was whole and void of you.
i was going to see you in another two days anyway, but if you didn't call then maybe you would later call to cancel, and i wouldn't know when i would see you again.
you told me not to wait, making it sound as if it was something voluntary, something that i had a choice over. waiting is by nature against the will of the person who waits. if i had my way, why would i make myself wait? one only waits when matters are not in his own hands. that's why water never boils when you're watching.
i started to think that i should just turn my demons against you, pick you out so there would be no more gaps between me and myself. i sat there formulating my plan, but really i was staring at my phone, and planning was just a plan to kill time. the phone was beginning to change shape, the way a word looks like it's spelt wrong when it appears repeatedly too many times.
then you called, and before goodnights you said, "see you Tuesday."
So I wait.