Just as I thought he had let go, that he finally knew who he thought I was, there he was asking for another chance, but not. Asking for anything but closure, trying to tempt me with an opened ended promise of maybe something but committing to nothing in some sort of vain attempt to protect himself from the inevitable jealousy that is soon to follow.
I’m not sure why I ever told him, maybe because he fatefully asked what I was doing that Saturday night and I surmised that the best excuse for avoidance was the truth. The truth was an ex-pro hockey player with a blown out knee and that revelation seems to have inspired the forthcoming days of desperate phone calls and multiple attempts to assume a fatherly role in warning me against the dangers of pro athletes.
The culmination of these events came at 2:00am after the date when I picked up a call and was rewarded with two hours of the billionaire admitting feelings of inadequacy, of sadness, of depression all of which left me rather turned off to the idea of any sort of reconciliation. The weakness, the human he had finally become was all rather off putting.
Yesterday he cornered me in the garage at work, he spoke hurriedly in a hushed voice amongst dusty boxes and ancient computer components demanding why I was no longer nice to him, why I was no longer loving and caring. I stared back at him in bewilderment, unable to even formulate any answer to such absurd questions. I now suddenly owed him something despite the fact that he most definitely broke up with me.
Calling his bluff I suggested that if he wanted those things from me then we’d have to be together.
“I can’t”, his voice trailing off into the echoes of the garage, “my parents won’t let me.”
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