Ideas.

Last night I couldn’t sleep and so I scanned the pile of books beside my bed where amongst cook books, a Rachel Zoe diatribe, one particularly obese anthology of American short stories, miscellaneous Flannery O'Connor works, novels of obscurity plucked from the used store and old favorites gifted by my favorite blogger, I snatched the only one that remained unconquered. I chose a story from its title menu by the criteria I always use, the name. I could not finish it even though it was perfect and torturous and full of the author's attempts to demonstrate his superiority. All the things I loathe and lust for in an author. Unfortunately, a minor part of the plot, in fact a daydream of a character, involved an adorable dog intended for peril. I just can't do that.

I haunt the half price bookstore, secretly thinking I’ll fall in love with some fledgling author languishing amongst stacks of musty books, forgotten volumes destined for obscurity. I love that place. The thrill of the undiscovered, imagining the fingers that passed over those pages, the unearthing of an inscription intended for someone else and even the names marked on inside covers that proclaim this book was once mine. Wow, lame, I know but it's my version of ill-conceived romance undoubtedly influenced by some mass produced Hollywood love ideal.

He is still sending me cute little messages like I love you and I miss you and I wish you were here, and so on and so forth. Once or twice I even got a luv u, as if he were flirting with me during study hall in the ninth grade. But I know better, especially when such smoke signals are transmitted at midnight. I’m no foreigner to such requests but it doesn’t mean these ones will be granted.

So I called his bluff, as I have been doing for these past three months and each time he cannot commit to a date, a time, a place. So today I informed him that his ninety-day warranty was up. I wasn’t going to request any of his time any longer. His response was anger and some quasi-witty hotheaded dismissal.

He whined, "I've been so busy".

"Spending time with your other friends" I triumphantly added, perhaps a little bit too excited that he could posit no argument to that.

And more words, as if I had already thoughtfully composed them instead of letting them fall out of my mouth like usual, came, "I just need you to let me go. You're holding on to something that can no longer be real and while you can't come to say it, you've shown me every day for the past three months how it is you really want to feel".

"You're right" he said as I slipped away.