What is it like, I wonder, to wake up one morning, look in the mirror, and say to your bug-eyed self, I’m going to call that person I haven’t spoken to in 7 months? No, I’m not going to call anyone I have no business calling. Besides, my eyes are small and almond-shaped. I look nothing like that squirrel in the Ice Age movies. Ambivalence, bless his poor confused heart, does. He has eyes like that–and apparently a brain capacity to rival that of the funny little rodent.
Now I don’t detest Ambivalence. The brief little situation involving Ambivalence didn’t end so badly. There was no drunken screaming match in downtown Oakland, no crying session on a Nashville hotel room floor. I haven’t talked about him too much in therapy. He just disappeared, taking my Oscar party grand prize gift bag with him(and he doesn’t even appreciate Tarantino, the p****!) When he text messaged me an early Christmas greeting, I laughed it off, made my usual bitchy comments, and moved on. He must think I haven’t because last night, he graced me with another message. This time, he wanted to know what I was doing. Oh I had answers for him. Instead, I kept eating my salad at Pasta Pomodoro, laughing about it with Hopeful.
Did he wake up yesterday morning and think that yes, she must still be free to talk to me? Did he smile as he typed out the message, wondering what I might say? Was he drunk? Lonely? Did he suffer a head injury? Maybe someone double-dog-dared him? And was he still smiling when my reply never came?
Celia Cruz once sang, in “El que siembra su maiz,” “…la mujer en el amor se parece a la gallina, que cuando se muere el gallo, a cualquier pollo se arrima.” In other words, women move on. I’ve moved on.