Love Song — The Cure, 1989
She called at 4pm. I was driving, listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers on a YouTube Music playlist, when the volume dropped and a small message scrolled across the CarPlay display: Love Song. That was the name I’d given her years back, substituting her initials, because every time I heard her voice that’s what it was. But the love song had grown tired. Now it played like a scratched record — you know the part that’s coming, the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard, and it still catches you off guard. The music turned back up and I was rocking to “Can’t Stop,” though in real life we had both stopped.
She called a second time. I was with someone and didn’t answer. I knew how it would go — something deplorable would get said, and then it would be you-said-I-said, don’t-tell-me-what-I-feel, and so on. I got home after a day of hiking and called her back. The phone rang the way it does when you already know. When the ringing turned to pause I hung up. I used to call just to hear her message — the way her voice tricked me into thinking she’d actually picked up. Now I just hung up.
I tried an hour later. Same thing.
A few minutes after that I sent a text covering my bases — told her I’d called twice, matched her two calls, that I was up three texts to two. Score keeping. She hated it and so did I, but I needed to protect myself. Not that it mattered, but it did to someone, though I can’t say whom.
I did the math. My calls had spanned five hours. Hers were three within two. She would say she’d called so many times. I would say three calls in five minutes is basically one call. If I was busy, a hundred calls wouldn’t change that. I was ahead. The scales of justice would see it my way.
But getting a judgment and collecting on it are two different things. I know this well — lost everything once, creditors won, couldn’t collect. Back in the day a sheriff would walk into a bank, show the judgment, and the teller would go red handing over the dollar fifteen in my account. Now it’s automated. Not the same middle finger.
Eight o’clock. I sent the good-night GIF and turned off my phone. There is only so much empty screen a person can take.
I took a sleeping pill, opened my Bible, turned off the lights. Usually that’s fifteen minutes of life left in me. But sleep didn’t come and I made the mistake of firing up the screen. Little envelopes begging to be opened. Then the phone buzzed in my hand and I nearly dropped it. Love Song. I listened and didn’t answer. I read the messages first — familiar, worn-out phrases. She was still angry. I still don’t know why.
The argument had started on a Tuesday. I asked point blank if she still wanted to be with me.
She said she didn’t want to do this over the phone.
That only means one thing. So I said let’s cut it and move on. She said I was telling her how she felt. I said by not saying anything you’ve said everything — pretty sure that’s from The Princess Bride, but I took the credit anyway.
She said she was trying to make time to see me.
“For what?” I said.
“To talk.”
“About what.”
She didn’t answer. That’s when the don’t-tell-me-what-I’m-thinking started, and I went looking for the off-ramp.
I said something about her being like her mother — she’d told me once she couldn’t stand talking to her mother because she never listened. That sent her over. She said she didn’t want to talk anymore, which meant she wanted to keep screaming, which I usually allow. This time I said okay and hung up.
I turned the phone face-down in the corner like it was wearing a dunce cap. I didn’t give in. This was what I needed to make it final. She’d made me mad enough not to want to see her again, but not so mad I didn’t want to see her again just to tell her that.
This morning I turned on the phone. Five messages in the notification window. I’m trying not to go down that rabbit hole.
It’s noon and I’m doing fine. The day is still young. She doesn’t wake until noon anyway.
BB Grey--musings 
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