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I used to have a love affair with your answering machine.It wasn't because I didn't like you, or because he was prettier. It was just because.
He was always there.
And he didn't do anything like the way that you do. His voice isn't deep and low like yours, like chocolate coating my throat and oozing slowly down into my stomach. And his breath doesn't tickle my ear like you do when I would say something funny and he would laugh against the whispy strands of hair. And he doesn't kiss me in that firm way that you do, with your lips firm and smooth against my gasping ones that gape like a fish out of water. And he doesn't touch the small of my back like you do when my knees are trembling and I'm nearly sprawled across the floor in weakness.
But he was always there.
And maybe it wasn't because you weren't there. Maybe you and I had always been right there around the corner, groping, searching for each other with eyes blind and hands outreached. And it wasn't that we weren't trying or weren't there for each other, but we could never seem to win that odd game of Marco Polo we always played. And everytime we tried to clapse hands and pull together, we'd somehow only clumsily brush fingertips spread in odd directions, nails scraping temporarily before grasping the empty air.
And we were always missing each other.
And we had always missed each other.
And don't you remember that time that I told you out of fear and insecurity that I could never ever love someone? And that only a few minutes later I whispered out a soft "I love you" in your ear. And you had stared at me then, with those large and dull brown eyes of yours, glaring out behind spiked lashes. And then I suddenly got embarrassed and shy about myself and my half naked state and being atop your bed under your writhing body.
So I looked you in the eye and laughed and said that I didn't mean it.
Couldn't mean it.
And don't you remember that time when I was running out of your door in a hurry, and you were smiling serenely at me while I fumbled with the buttons of my sweater and buckles? And I was swearing and cursing and damning, but you smiled back at me all the same with your calm brown and average and vacant eyes. And I was leaving when you put a hand on the door and said.
And oh, you said.
I love you.
And I just stared at you that time, do you remember that? And I let out a half laugh, half chuckle that was too cold for my heart to bear. And I had looked at the deep red of your shirt or the light khaki of your pants or the dark rubber soles peeking out from your shoes. And I looked everywhere but your eye. And I said.
Oh.
And slipped out.
And don't you remember that very last time? That time where I said, I'm leaving.
And mechanically: Yeah, you are.
And shyly: Let's see each other again.
And on that day, that rum and whiskey and sin and sadness day, I tried to call you. And I tried to call you. And I tried to call--
So I left.
You.
And when I got back, there was a message on my answering machine.
And oh, we were always missing each other. We had always missed each other.
I love you, goodbye.
The only thing we forgot to miss was hello.
Did you have an affair with my answering machine too?
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