“I finally ate last night.” He said with hesitation.

“Oh yeah? How long has that been?”

“Almost three complete days.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s no good, man.”

“Thanks. I had no idea. I’m just so sick that eating makes it worse. My stomach already feels like it wants to reject itself, so I don’t need to put other things in there for it to reject.”

He lifted his hand to his forehead and scratched. It turned into a full-face rub because once you scratch one place everything else starts itching too. He dropped his arm to his side and resumed his conversation:

“I went to bed last night hoping to wake up in my bed the next morning to the tune of several people shouting, ‘Surprise! Happy moved-and-left-us-all joke!’ I would slowly move to the edge of my bed and run my fingers through my nappy hair, just trying to make sense of what was going on. Then I would stand and meet the greetings of all my friends as they said things like, ‘we totally got you man!’ or, ‘you should have seen your face yesterday.’ Then they slowly part and there she is. She is more beautiful than I have ever seen her because she’s here, standing before me, again. She looks at me sheepishly and says, ‘they put me up to it,’ and I pull her close and kiss and hug her.”

He stood and walked to the window. With the phone in his left hand he rested his right arm against the window pain and looked out the window. There was silence on the line, and he leaned forward, rested his forehead against the pane, and closed his eyes.

“That is screwed up. Seriously.” The Friend replied after collecting his thoughts.

“This whole thing is screwed up. You don’t need to tell me.”

The Friend sat for a few seconds wondering where to go with his next comment. What could be said that would make him feel better and would take his mind off all of this? There was several seconds more of silence.

He opened his eyes and moved away from the window. He walked around the couch over to the kitchen. He reached up, opened the cupboard, and removed a glass, placing it firmly on the counter before opening the refrigerator and grabbing the water pitcher. He poured the glass of water.

“I’m sorry.” The Friend said.

He stood thinking. Stop being sorry. Just say that you can bring her back. I don’t care if you are sorry. I want her to be sorry. He paused with this last statement.

“Damn!”

Water was pouring all over the counter as he swiftly tilted the pitcher back to it’s upright position and set it back into the fridge.

“What?” The Friend asked.

“Nothing. I’m retarded. I just poured water all over the counter.” He said as he grabbed a towel and began wiping up the mess he’d made in his negligence. I don’t really want her to be sorry, I just want her to love me again.

“It’s kind of funny because I could draw parallels from my life right now to a bad B-grade movie. The acting is poor, the plot makes jumps that are totally unexplainable and no one sees coming, and the ending sucks.” He walked over and sat on the couch forgetting his water on the counter. After a few seconds of sitting, he pulled his feet up and laid down on his back while resting his head on a throw pillow. Why can’t I make sense of this? Why is it that it feels like there is an answer but I can’t find one? He stared at the ceiling. The black spot hadn’t moved at all. Not that it would, but he just kept focusing in on it as if there might be some change. His eyes slowly drifted down the wall to his dresser that stood piled over with clothes and other miscellaneous junk: a hanger, a book, a belt, and a few bills. He had meant to clean the other day, but it was a half-hearted initiative he had set for himself before the war erupted.

“Well I am going to let you go.” He said. He closed his eyes and rolled over on his side. He was tired of talking. He could only take so much right now, and then he just felt like pulling back into his shell. He was just weary of telling people how things were going. He loved that they cared and even wanted the open ear, but only for a little while: then he shut down.

“Alright, talk to you later.”

He shut his cell phone and laid on the couch. He stretched his arm out in front of him and flipped the lid of his cell phone back open to view the picture of her on the screen. Slowly his eyelids took control of his eyes and forced them into submission. His fingers loosened, and the cell phone slid closer and closer to falling onto the floor. But it just dangled on the verge of falling completely.