Two, three, four o'clock goes by and I'm not surprised. I knew it was her birthday weekend, or found out after I'd asked her. She was enthusiastic, used exclamation points. She said we'd play the time by ear. I'd gotten this before but still pressed on. And when the time for coffee fades I can only chuckle, and mostly at myself.
It's not a difficult thing: "It's my birthday." It's not that complicated: "Maybe another time." And because of these easy answers I am forced into the only possible truth, which is that this is a signal, a message, as all the others were. They come into view, side by side, and each one magnifies the other. The facts were there, but I was hellbent on bending them.
I pine. I get hung up, it's true. But more than that I'd like the truth. The ones in my head, the ones I make up, are worse even if they are better. And, by definition, anything I make up cannot be true. If you think you're hurting me, trust me, you're helping. Also, I could wise up, stop acting silly, leave you alone. There's that, too.
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