Wishful Thinking

I

I hear the doorbell ring and rise with relief: he hasn’t forgotten about me.

And here I sat for hours, worrying about whether or not he was going to call; getting depressed at the prospect that he just didn’t care and wouldn’t bother remembering; going back and forth in my head – over and over – is it okay to be pissed yet?

But he’s at the door: he hasn’t forgotten.

I carefully applied my make-up and did my hair hours ago – the perfect outfit, the perfect perfume and I’ve been sitting here trying not to mess it all up just in case he called. As the hours slowly went by, I wondered whether I had done all this for nothing and what would be the best time to get back into sweats?

But he’s here: he remembered.

And he’s brought me flowers – lilacs! – my favourite.

And he greets me with a kiss that says “I couldn’t get here fast enough."

Thank God…

I’m not crazy.

II

You held me close and made a promise (I’ve never been suspicious of a promise so sincere). In fact, you promised me over and over again, and I believed you.

And no matter how many times you so casually hurt me, I still believed you and I still, still, to this minute, have faith in you and those promises.

I know you will call me in just an hour or so, eager to hear my loving voice – tell me you’ll pick me up at six and I miss you very much.

I know you won’t disappoint me again.

I know I’m not crazy. Not this time – not again.

I mean, how many times can a girl be so stupid?

Will I still be as trusting of the world after the likes of you?

Those lilacs were plastic fantasy; those sweet words, whispers of my imagination.

How dare you make me cry so hard – you’re not that strong (maybe I’m just weak).

No more. No more wishful thinking.

You’re not worth my sanity.

Love Marylin.