I knew Shelby would flake on me. I told her.

And still, I went ahead (moth/flame) with my plan to meet her.

Reminds me of Poison, she who, years back, set me on this journey, when my reaction to being stood up by her made me realize, finally, how out-of-control I really was.

Now, I’m not that guy. Or rather, that guy lives on inside me, but I’ll be just fine.

Shelby handled herself with considerably less than “class.” Her text to me – less than two hours before we were scheduled to meet – didn’t even fully own her decision to cancel. It left open (though only barely) the possibility that she might – might – still make it, albeit late.

She won’t.

It tersely apologized, without even saying for what she was apologizing.

Once upon a time, this would have sent me down a vortex of misery, despair, and acting-out. Never mind that, however excited for the uses to which I hoped to put her body, I barely know her.

Today? Today? That’s not where I am.

I’ve meditated once today. I don’t feel the tightness in my chest rejection and abandonment can cause. I don’t feel the primal, primitive, infantile rage of an infant deprived of nourishment.

Mostly what I feel is… sad.

[I suppose there’s a non-zero chance Shelby will, after all, make her lithe, pale body available to me for the beating it deserves. And I suppose that, were she to do so, the coiled rage I would unleash on her would be, um, to her liking. But. I doubt it.]

One comment

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.