I called.
He still wasn’t picking up his phone.
Then one day, another e-mail:Sixteen days (I’ve been gone)
Plus eight more days (till I come back).
That’s twenty-four days,
A ridiculous number of hours,
an insane number of minutes,
when every minute lasts an hour
and every hour lasts a day.
The clocks have nearly stopped themselves.
No batteries will speed them up.
No power boost, no winding.
They hardly move, these clocks.
Watching the hands go round is like
watching someone’s blood drip onto the street
while you wait for an ambulance
and wait
and wait
and the blessed siren does not sound.
The clocks will hardly move
and hardly move
and hardly move
Until
I
am
home.
Maybe when I see you they will start again.
Oh.
Wow.
That.
For me.
How can you be mad at a guy who writes you a poem like that?
Most people would say you can’t. Noel was so honest on the page. When I first read his words, I felt like he was reaching out to me through them.
Except, when I thought about it later–he wasn’t. Not really.
He loves me! Poemy poem goodness! Romance!
No. If he loved you, he’d call you back.
Maybe his phone broke.
Then he’d e-mail you that his phone broke.
But a poem!
Yeah, but what’s stopping him from writing you back about Hutch’s going-away party? He needs to write back about that. A real live boyfriend would write back about that.
Yeah. That’s true.
He’s not writing about
In a way, it’s like he’s writing to an
Yeah. Because the Idea of the Ideal Ruby loves the poems and feels fulfilled, but the Ruby Who Exists really wants to talk to him about Hutch’s party.
Shouldn’t the Ruby Who Exists not be so demanding and just be thankful for the poems?
But when he doesn’t call me back I feel insecure!
He wrote you poems!
But he hasn’t called.
But he wrote you poems!
But he hasn’t called.
And so on. I was driving myself even more insane than on an ordinary day.
Finally, I just planned the party for Hutch without any input from Noel, and tried to go about my life ignoring the shaky, needy feeling in the center of my chest. I only allowed myself to call Noel’s cell once a day.
He never picked up.
At some point I stopped leaving messages.
1 I missed his calls because I am the last person on the planet without a cell phone. My parents insist that if I want one I have to pay for it. But I got the video camera instead.
Distraction Caused by a Bare Chest!
a video clip:
Finn Murphy—barista, soccer stud-muffin, Meghan’s boyfriend—stands behind the counter at the B&O Espresso, wearing an apron over a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His light blond hair has grown out a bit from his crew cut, and he smiles shyly.
