I'm truly speechless
When I answered the phone this morning, Jay's tone was clipped and to the point.
"Melissa?"
"Yeah," I responded.
"Don't ever. Fucking. Talk. To. Me. Again."
I sighed. This was a wee bit amusing, seeing as though I haven't exactly been beating a path to his door for the last five months. It also sounded like something a high school boyfriend would say, after you dumped him at prom for some older guy with a mullet and a Camaro.
Spiteful. Petulant.
I had no idea he hated me so much.
* * *
Of course, a tiny part of this may spring from whose bed I woke up in this morning.
I've been friends with Jay's roommate a lot longer than I've known him -- in fact, it was the roommate who initially introduced us. But sometimes, the lines of friendship get a little blurry, as they did a few weeks ago.
And again, last night.
When Crosby and I stepped out of his bedroom this morning, Jay was laying in the living-room floor. For some bizarre reason, he had elected to spend the night there, stretched out under a blanket. Right in the spot where I'd kicked my shoes off earlier.
Even though I'd seen him stirring as I opened the bedroom door, he wouldn't look at me. In fact, I realized, he was pretending to be asleep.
"Jay," I addressed him directly, "do you think you're on top of one of my shoes?"
He didn't move or otherwise acknowledge my question. Several seconds later, I made a small, triumphant noise as I spotted my left sandal and pulled it out from under the corner of his blanket.
After I gathered the rest of my things, Crosby held the door open for me, and we said a quick, nonsentimental goodbye.
I didn't bother saying anything to the man on the floor.
* * *
Jay had plenty to say to me, however, when he called 30 minutes later.
He also had had plenty to say last night, at one point threatening to physically eject me from the apartment for some petty slight. (He had shown me a story he'd written for his college newspaper. I made a teasing remark, and he flew into a rage. Hmmmm. Overreact much?)
There may be something else going on here. Mutual friends tell me Jay's been unusually quiet lately, as if something is eating at him. So maybe he's going through some personal trouble, and I'm just the easiest target for him to displace rage onto. Especially if I give him an excuse like poking (what I thought was goodnatured!) fun at a story lede. Or spending the night with his roommate.
[Sigh] Crazy, crazy.
I'm intrigued by the direction things have taken with Crosby, but this situation cannot possibly work, long-term. And I'm not young or foolish enough to expect that it will.
All the same, I am a person who does what she wants. When she wants. And with whom she wants. If our relationship didn't teach Jay anything else, he should have at least absorbed that much.
But maybe he was too busy throwing a temperamental fit, at the time.
"Melissa?"
"Yeah," I responded.
"Don't ever. Fucking. Talk. To. Me. Again."
I sighed. This was a wee bit amusing, seeing as though I haven't exactly been beating a path to his door for the last five months. It also sounded like something a high school boyfriend would say, after you dumped him at prom for some older guy with a mullet and a Camaro.
Spiteful. Petulant.
I had no idea he hated me so much.
* * *
Of course, a tiny part of this may spring from whose bed I woke up in this morning.
I've been friends with Jay's roommate a lot longer than I've known him -- in fact, it was the roommate who initially introduced us. But sometimes, the lines of friendship get a little blurry, as they did a few weeks ago.
And again, last night.
When Crosby and I stepped out of his bedroom this morning, Jay was laying in the living-room floor. For some bizarre reason, he had elected to spend the night there, stretched out under a blanket. Right in the spot where I'd kicked my shoes off earlier.
Even though I'd seen him stirring as I opened the bedroom door, he wouldn't look at me. In fact, I realized, he was pretending to be asleep.
"Jay," I addressed him directly, "do you think you're on top of one of my shoes?"
He didn't move or otherwise acknowledge my question. Several seconds later, I made a small, triumphant noise as I spotted my left sandal and pulled it out from under the corner of his blanket.
After I gathered the rest of my things, Crosby held the door open for me, and we said a quick, nonsentimental goodbye.
I didn't bother saying anything to the man on the floor.
* * *
Jay had plenty to say to me, however, when he called 30 minutes later.
He also had had plenty to say last night, at one point threatening to physically eject me from the apartment for some petty slight. (He had shown me a story he'd written for his college newspaper. I made a teasing remark, and he flew into a rage. Hmmmm. Overreact much?)
There may be something else going on here. Mutual friends tell me Jay's been unusually quiet lately, as if something is eating at him. So maybe he's going through some personal trouble, and I'm just the easiest target for him to displace rage onto. Especially if I give him an excuse like poking (what I thought was goodnatured!) fun at a story lede. Or spending the night with his roommate.
[Sigh] Crazy, crazy.
I'm intrigued by the direction things have taken with Crosby, but this situation cannot possibly work, long-term. And I'm not young or foolish enough to expect that it will.
All the same, I am a person who does what she wants. When she wants. And with whom she wants. If our relationship didn't teach Jay anything else, he should have at least absorbed that much.
But maybe he was too busy throwing a temperamental fit, at the time.