The breathe is back in my lungs. The short bald preacher with cute glasses quit calling this week. He's been sick and his grandfather is dying, which MIGHT be the cause of silence. I've been thoughful (yet not pushy) by texting him. A mild cold and dying estranged grandfather aren't the cause of complete silence...of his reluctance to commit to a night at my house this weekend.
When a man goes from texting all day and talking on the phone for 1 1/2 hours every night to nothing, it is a sign of the end.
Fun is now over. My my mind is already re-adjusting to a man free life...working on the house, making my favorite soup, and swim.
I had hope for a while, which is very good.
He may call. We may see each other again in a week or two, but my phase of being starry-eyed and blissfully floating through my days has now passed. I'm not waiting for the phone to ring. Any hope that I have left is not placed in him.
Those stupid fucking eggs all in one basket. I hate it when I am right about impending pain and suffering.
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