Blue

It’s 2 a.m. on a Wednesday night and I’m drunk. The song “Blue,” which I’ve always hated, comes on and I think of her. I search for her name in my phone and call her. She answers - I obviously woke her up, but she hasn’t heard from me in months. She’s anxious to hear what I have to say, which is nothing. 1

“The song Blue is playing and I thought of you,” I announce after awkward greetings.2

“Oh,” she says. 3

There’s nothing left to say. She can tell that I’m drunk which amuses her, because it’s a weeknight - and probably fuels her resentment4

“I don’t have class on Thursdays,” I explain. 5

“Oh.”6

The silence is awkward and I do my best to fill it. “How are your parents?” I ask.7

“They’re fine,” she pauses. She’s trying to decide how much she should tell me.  “I don’t live with them anymore.”8

“Oh?” I ask, forcing surprise. I had heard that she had moved out, but was still hoping it was a rumor.9

“I’m living with Joe now,” she says hesitantly.10

“Oh.” I’m disappointed. I think of reminding her what she said about him last winter. She said she wasn’t in love with him and, on the subject of cocaine,  “He’s not addicted. He just likes to do it sometimes.” But, I figure, I’m drunk, and nothing I want to say will come out right. It’s not really my place to say it anymore anyway. I change the subject. “How’s school?” I ask optimistically. 11

“I withdrew.”12

“Oh.” I’m disappointed again. She goes on to explain that she’s going back next fall but, this semester, she missed too many classes; and had to drop them. I think of asking her, “If you can’t do it now, what makes you think it’ll be easier in the future?” But, I figure, I’m still drunk, and I wouldn’t know how to ask her in a nice way if I were sober.13

We’re both quiet now. Memories come to me, they are scattered and fast. I think of the day I picked her up for school (and by “I” I mean my mom, since I was too young to drive) and we were wearing the same shirt. We didn’t realize that we matched until we took our coats off at school. We avoided each other all day because we were afraid that people would think we had done it on purpose. I think of when she got really drunk at my brother’s wedding reception and fought with me when I told her to sleep on her side. When I put a trash can next to her, just in case she threw up in the night, she picked it up, and clumsily tried to throw it in protest. Unfortunately, she didn’t have any coordination and accidentally hit herself in the head. She said, “Ow,” before passing out; I was worried all night. I think of when she lost her virginity to a guy who didn’t care about her. We had a “pow-wow” afterwards to talk about what an asshole he was and she said, “I don’t regret it; I just wish I hadn’t done it.” I laughed - to this day, I don’t think she knows why. I think of one of the parties we attended a few summers ago - the last summer, really - she was much more drunk than I was. She hugged me and cried for at least twenty minutes. She told me that I was her best friend and that she was afraid that I would forget about her when I went away to college. I didn’t deny it, but she was too drunk to notice. I just patted her on the back and wiped the tears from her face. “It’ll be okay,” I said. It was my catchphrase. Even then it sounded practiced and forced. 14

I snap back to the present. I’m still on the phone and it is okay, and I haven’t forgotten, but I don’t find it particularly pleasant to remember either.15

“Well, I guess I should be going. Sorry I woke you,” I consider giving her excuses about why I have to go, but I don’t think I need one. 16

“It’s okay,” she says. She thinks of saying that she misses me, I can hear her thoughts just as clearly as I always could, but she doesn’t say it, because she’s afraid that I won’t reciprocate. 17

“Okay.... go back to sleep. Have a good night!” I say in my friendliest voice. 18

“Yeah.... you too.” She’s disappointed. We let each other down. 19

And that’s it. I stand on the porch a little longer. I shake my head; I pretend I’m a gigantic etch-a-sketch. If I shake my head hard enough, the memories will be erased. Instead, the rapid movement makes me sick and I vomit before going back inside. My night has become depressed and I vow to never call her again. Talking to her makes me sad. And I’m pretty sure that she hates talking to me as much as I hate not being able to talk to her. Nothing I say means anything anymore. Nothing she says means anything anymore. Neither of us say anything anymore.20