I waited until 4.47am before I rang him.
He answered the phone, husky toned and drunk.
He is a prick, I thought. A fucking prick.
I wanted us to be together tonight, I missed him.
He seemed amused by my phone call.
Could I not leave him alone at all, he wondered.
I would leave him all right.
Weeks after when he phoned, asking me where I had been, and whom I’d been with, I laughed and placed my phone on loudspeaker as my new boyfriend touched me.
Then he didn’t stop calling.
At first, I liked it.
I saw his number on my display and I had butterflies in my stomach.
He loved me, he needed me.
I was needed.
Then when he showed up at my front door, I still felt needed but also a bit concerned, would he stalk me now?
He spilled out some romance like a mail order.
His spirit was not complete without me holding it, maybe.
Weak, I let him in.
We made love.
Well, I made love.
He took love.
Then he stopped calling.
My new boyfriend stopped calling too, it turned out they were related.
At first, it hurt.
Then when he showed up at my front door, I felt needed, for abuse.
He too was abused, I kissed him goodbye, I shut the door, I lit a cigarette, I drank wine, I called my best friend, I laughed and I thought of the lie.
Then I laughed more before I went to sleep.
The next day I woke up and deleted his number.—
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