We spoke after a fortnight. After I had written him a Dear John email in the wee hours of a teary morning. I had hoped it would be the last of the words between us on that subject. But he only wanted to talk when I was all ready to leave. Or had perhaps already left.
He didn’t ask me to return but asked for my reasons. He also professed an unexpected apology. And perhaps for the first time he sounded hurt. At what exactly, I couldn’t lay a finger on.
I felt stronger whilst talking to him a fortnight later. There wasn’t the customary flirtatious play of words. I wasn’t hankering for his attention. And that made all the difference.
I was finally talking to him at my own terms. Without a defined beginning or a precise end. We were talking because we needed to share. To communicate. To simply talk. A trait that we had previously overlooked, lost in lust.