…Richie
“Hello.” I said as I picked up the phone, finally, last night. I feel like I’m living in an 80s video, maybe for a Lionel Richie song. “Tony Billy Boy has been imprisoned for 25 years…Billy Boy, ask Amanda for a date.”
There’s a pause at the end of the phone, I felt sort of sick as I answered.
“Is it me you’re looking for?” I say, I want to be angry and sound bitter and beleaguered, but I can’t. I’m doing what I always do, and he knows it, because this is such a hard conversation. I have to make sure I don’t cry, watching the flesh pump up and down on the tv offers a mild distraction.
“Lionel Richie.” He sounds as if he is slightly smiling. I’m trying not to miss him, or think of the things I have been doing in his absense. “Appropriate.”
“It’s what I know.” I say, “this and the can…”
We used to do this, MR and me, when we were bored, quote cinematic 1980’s music videos. Thriller was always a favorite.
“We could go to Florida,” He adds, “Or we cold go out west.”
“Guitar solo moment.” I added, This is where he would dance with utensils around the kitchen. His preferred microphonic implement was a whisk. Omlette making was always good time.
“I miss you.” He says. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Sitting in a hotel room in Berlin, watching german porn.”
He said something funny here but I didn’t laugh.
“Work?”
“Yup.” I clarify. Then there’s nothing again. Except the noises being made by my Ten Euro televisual entertainment.
“So why haven’t you been answering?” He asked.
“Busy, you know.” I lied. Part of me wanted to tell him it was to make him hurt like hell, so i did. “And because you hurt me.”
“It was just a stupid arguement.” He clears up. I think I made a snorting noise out of my nose.
“A stupid arguement? Were you going to ever tell me about you and Claire or just leave it up to her to do your dirty work for you.”
“What do you mean ‘Me and Claire’? I can’t stand the woman.” He said, and he sounded geniunely confused.
“You’re a regular Rip Van Winkle aren’t you?”
“Don’t change the subject. What are you talking about?”
“Claire and you. Don’t lie about it.”
“About what…God, you have one blow up at me and suddenly I’m a dick.”
“You blew up at ME? I’ve got the fucking email chain to prove it.”
“Shit I can’t talk about this over the phone. When are you coming home?”
“Never.”
“Now you’re being facetious.”
“Now you’re being facetious.” I repeated. God I love irony.
“Don’t do that. Come home, let’s go see a movie. I just…I need to see you. I’m useless. Come on. Please. ‘We could go to the Paramount maybe, or the Alby.’..” He’s Richieing again. Of course it makes me miss him.
“Dinner. No movie. I’m not coming over to yours. A proper date.”
That’s kind of how it went. And I DO want to see him. I won’t tell you how much i cried last night because it’s depressing. I’ll just send you in the direction of good ol’ Lionel…
