Close call

I’m still bleeding, but the clotting has subsided and the pain is much more manageable. This is good, since I didn’t intend to drop B. back at his dad’s house so I could spend six hours in the ER for procedures that would collectively and objectively take less than an hour.

***

Today, I’m meeting D. for coffee. Thursday night, in a fit of romantic delusion (probably influenced by watching that evening’s episode of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, in which Danny Tripp proposes to Jordon McDeere as she’s about to be wheeled off to have an emergency C-section), I drove to his house. Walking the fine line between romance and stalking, I made sure his car was in the ‘hood before calling. And call I did: twice, plus one text message for good measure. As it turned out, I felt dumb anyhow: he’d gone out with a friend (in the friend’s car), and so I drove home feeling dejected and halfway humiliated.

I suppose I thought if he SAW MY FACE that he couldn’t continue to run away. Instead, I freaked him out, though I suppose one side benefit was that it woke him up to how urgently I feel his lack of taking responsibility:

I am sorry I was not there when you stopped by. I have to admit I was a little shocked and maybe a bit uncomfortable last night that you made it a point to come over, but obviously you felt it was important for us to have some face-to-face time.

Gee, you think?

We’ll see how things go today. I don’t have extremely high hopes. I’m just planning on getting there early, sitting nonchalantly sipping espresso and reading a magazine when he arrives, and looking absolutely fabulous.