Insignificant Others

You are insignificant to me. An insignificant other, I think, as I walk down this concrete sidewalk in the late hours of a Saturday afternoon that's well past its prime. I embellished you and made you into this wonderful creature of a man in my own head, yet you think nothing of pulling quite a little number on me.

I pass a college-age couple holding hands on their way to Potbelly and I smirk at the idea of holding hands with anyone. Ever. I am frigid and will not be letting my fingers loose any time soon, not even for a single moment because a single moment is enough for me to clench that Blackberry and type a dramatic one-liner to you.

I can end it with you right now. But I am still waiting.

You want me to get on that roller-coaster of an emotional ride where the high peaks are counteracted by the deep and infuriating lows. You want to make me feel how intense of an effect you have on me by making me go from balling my eyes out on my bed in a fetal position to throwing something at you and punch a hole in my apartment wall, one right after another. But I won't/I'll try not to.

I enter Potbelly to order a sandwich and stand behind the lovey-dovey couple, half-heartedly contemplating getting a tuna sandwich with swiss cheese and a bottle of Orangina. You pop up in my head again and distract me enough to not be able to formulate a cohesive order once I approach the sandwich girl behind the counter.

"One second, I haven't decided yet," I mutter and step back, letting the people behind me place their orders instead.

The chalk-board with daily soup and milkshake specials is to the left of me and I pretend to be perusing the selection, deep in thought. Meanwhile, I unfold the palm of my hand and look down at my Blackberry, as my anxiety builds up inside and threatens to spill over.

This must be the fiftieth time today that I've checked my phone hoping for something, anything from you.

No messages. No messages for three days, while you're galloping around somewhere in the exotic Mediterranean lands with your study-abroad friends. Do you believe that?

I curse my Blackberry and technology of the last twenty years in general for making me feel so alienated while being so connected to the world. I can't miss a single newsletter in my Gmail inbox from Architectural Record, yet your daily updates have been abruptly cut down from three or four to none.

"Are you ready to order?" the sandwich girl urges me to make a decision and prevent me from blocking the inflow of customers coming in for a dinner after some baseball game.

"Yeah... tuna sandwich on white bread with provologne... please..."

My meal is the least of my problems right now.