i could be your heroine

friday night.

ok it's actually saturday morning.

whatever.

interesting night. apparently i looked hot enough that a female bartender bought my first drink. but more importantly, i looked hot enough to convince the heroin addict to hit on me again.

after nearly a year of not speaking. he comes up to me and offers his number again. like nothing happened. to him, i'm sure nothing is exactly what happened. he never convinced me to fall for him, against all my inner warnings. he never made me fear for my safety. no, none of that ever happened.

so i accept his number. i agonize over it, thinking what does it mean? because it has to mean something. it has to. why of all the nights he's seen me out....why does he choose tonight to start things up? i pull at my hair, thinking this isn't fair that universe is doing to this me. i genuinely want to know that he's doing ok, but at the same time, i don't want that mess at my doorstep again.

i go home, turn the shower on. it's scalding. i let the hot water burn feeling into me. no, i let the hot water burn sense into me. i want to scream, i want to cry, but i don't. if i do, he wins. so i suffer, let the hot water attempt to blister my skin while the memories tear at my mind. this has to be a sign, doesn't it?

i get out of the shower. i lay on the ground and let my dog lick me. i look at my phone. i look at the trophy i've won saying "i won" the unspoken battle of wills, of who's doing better and who will cave first: his number. i look at it and promptly delete it.

then i learn that i look for meaning where there is none.