You weaned me. At least, you thought you did.

At first you came every day, your arms laden with gifts: Swiss chocolate, a crimson robe, shiny useless baubles. You told me stories about last week, when your cat ran away and you plastered the lampposts with her picture. You told me about what’s-her-name, the chubby girl from two cubicles over, how she found out she has cancer. Then you worried that your stories saddened me, so you stuttered, grinned, shuffled your feet, and told me of your sister Janey, who tucked her skirt into her panties and walked across campus that way. I managed a weak smile and you laughed way too hard. Neither of us meant it.

Then you started calling, apologizing and making excuses. You were busy at work; your stamp collection was stolen; your pants needed mending. Whatever. When you did come, you brought a magazine or two, old copies of People or Reader’s Digest that you probably plucked from the dentist’s office. You stayed just long enough to tell me how nice I looked; we both knew you were lying. You made sure not to look at the missing button on my shirt, popped because my belly and breasts have grown large from eating too much, doing too little and taking medications that swell me like a blown up pool toy. Yet you couldn’t look into my eyes, so you picked some spot on the wall instead. I think you lasted ten minutes.

Then you stopped calling. You came by sporadically, stood at the door and clung to the jamb as if a bottomless canyon lay just beyond it and you were desperately fearful of falling in. How’s it going, you asked, but you didn’t wait for an answer. Sorry, gotta run, you know how it is.

Then you vanished. At first I worried that something happened to you. I called and left messages, but you never returned my calls. Once, when I dialed from a different phone, you picked up and said hello, hello, hello, hello. I hung up. When I think of you now, I wonder if you’ve forgotten me, or if I just repulse you so that you can’t bear the thought of me.

I hope when you read this, you’ll think of me and feel just a little bit guilty.

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