I remember when Tuesdays meant more than Tuesday. You worked around my schedule; I waited on yours. I’d sleep through mornings, roll out at noon: six hours before you called. Homework was hard. Tuesdays I did labs. I recalled formulas to your laugh, mixtures to hugs, chemical imbalances for kisses (on the cheek). I would finish my work quickly, in hopes you’d call sooner but, you were in classes and I was home. My mom always said to keep busy. Busy. The most time consuming thing I did was think of you.
I was too young, putting you on a high pedestal. Everything I liked, you loved. Everything I loved, you did. We’d walk aimlessly for hours, catching up on casketed subjects. Beating dead horses hiccuped our spark. I knew you were tired of our plateaued pace. I was tired of you pursuing what you wanted instead of asking. We recycled our mutual friends. Using them one by one to test our bond. You always held my hand, fearing someone else would. You would advertise us as a couple because you knew I didn’t understand the price behind pretending. No one else thought we were pretending and that got you off.
You called me at six on Tuesday nights because you hoped I’d appreciate it. More came out on the phone, because you couldn’t take things back with a hug. Kisses (on the cheek) were less frequent after awhile ever since someone else filled in our crack.
A friend to you.
Something more for me.
Our Tuesday phone calls suddenly transitioned to Saturday afternoons. After some time, the phone stopped ringing and the need to hear from you seemed silly. Soon I was being advertised as someone’s girlfriend. We held hands in public and laughed at our own jokes. He worked around my schedule and waited for me before calling. For awhile I looked at me and him as a game, a show for everybody else. But soon I realized you cannot pretend to be in love.
Wouldn’t you agree?