The Disposable Female

Sometimes Robb roams around my head, flipping through my thoughts, as though they were old photographs. Granted, they are of people he has never met, places he's never been. Still, he finds them familiar, which, for me, is a dependable antidote to loneliness. Other people do this too, force their way in, toss my thoughts around, and search for some loose connection of which there are many--baseless loyalty, indiscriminate empathy, stubborn idealism, etc.

Recently, an ex-friend attempted such an assault. She called me at work, having found the number through a work directory. She was drunk. I was busy. She was suicidal. That reckless empathy kicked in. I talked to her through two cigarettes. Some stone goblin came to life. I spoke in tongues, spewing rote reassurances. She always catches me off guard. When I returned to my office, she called me 5 more times. (Yes, yes it was excessive and freakish.)

Before I could send her the lengthy rebuke I had composed during my hour-commute, she e-mailed me with her template apology: I was pretty drunk. Hope I didn't fall asleep or say anything mean. She is an expert at tamping down my anger. That anger will arise at some later time. Cougar-like, it stalks me and will disembowel me with its razor claws. I'll have no idea.