Why Men Don't Call

The storms of the last week have left us, faithful as they came. The Bookcliffs are covered in snow, belying the years and years of sloshing shore water that made the huge, brown temples to the latter days of the dinosaurs. A couple minutes of cold air from the Uncompagre made them beautiful white raiments of a long, tumultious past of upheavals and volcanism. By this time tomorrow, the snow will be gone from the south face of the range and all that will be of this perfect view out my window will be darkened mud monoliths. The snow never seems to stick around when it would do the most good.

Unlike the Spring Jitters that make my gypsy blood boil for open roads and new horizons. They're always the worst when I need to focus on class or work or someone I should have called weeks ago. She's a good girl, I just don't want to stick around and feel the fur-lined straps close over my chest while her sweet company raps around my ankles like the sweetest constrictor ever to kill a man. So, I'm not going to call again tonight.

Well, I tried to call, anyway. Two months too late.

Damn the demons of voicemail. Damn the ignore function on the terrible convenient invention of the cell phone. I don't blame her, really. Hearing the ring trailing off into dark digitally resampled space between us, I knew. She knows, too. For all she needs me, or at least wants me, or at least feels slightly more content when I'm around, she's doing the right thing. I root for her as the phone rings. Stay strong, girl. Don't let someone treat you like this. Stay strong.

Another shot at voicemail. I guess she already figured all that out. Women are such deadly intuitive creatures.

I know she's probably hurt from it all, and I'm sorry. That's the last time I call her. It's a small town, we'll meet ackwardly or triumphantly, someday. Sorry I walked off and left you, Girl I Wasn't Dating. I did it for us. I'm an asshole, honey, trust me. I'm walking off and only leaving good memories, I hope. It's not your fault I didn't call for so long. Blame it on Spring, seasons are the strong silent type; it can't defend itself. I made a lame attempt to give her a small, safe piece what I thought was my heart, and all she wanted was a small, warm space in my soul.

Don't think twice, it's alright.

Oh, well.