I am waiting for your text.
I always text you first. In fact, I often succumb to double-texting you when you don’t respond to my hilarious game commentary the night before.
I eagerly (and I hate to admit it) wait for your reply. Maybe you’re busy. Are you at work? Maybe you’re sleeping. Are you driving? Maybe you’re out to lunch with a friend. Are you rolling up a blunt to smoke later? Maybe your phone died.
Your phone might just be on vibrate in your pocket. Or you left it in another room and totally forgot about it when you sat down on the couch to watch another Entourage rerun.
Like I said, maybe your phone died. I know how iPhones get. Your battery is at 19% and all of the sudden it’s at 1%, and before you know it that screen of death appears.
You haven’t checked your phone because you’re helping your brother with his math homework. Classic. Maybe you’re attempting not to burn the pizza in the oven. Again.
Maybe you didn’t reply yet because you are in bed, reading my subtweets (about you) and smiling coyly because you’ve caught on. Or you’re watching some silly zombie movie. I know how much you like those. Not the scary ones, the funny ones. I like those, too.
Once you check your texts, maybe you’ll reply saying how busy you were. You’ll dish on how long your work day was or how you accidentally fell asleep midday because naps aren’t only for babies. Or how your kitchen almost burned down earlier when you tried to play house-husband.
You’ll tell me how great the Entourage episode (or episodes, let’s be serious: you can’t just watch one) was. Or you’ll send me a simple sorry for not seeing my text. You are forgetful, after all. And the weed occasionally gets to your head.
Once you’re done helping your brother with his math homework, you might tell me how bad at math you always were, or how surprisingly smart your little brother is. You’ll text me about the tweets you saw earlier, ones I may or may not have specifically tweeted in hopes that you’d see them and appreciate them.
You’ll text me back once you finish that silly zombie film, telling me I simply don’t understand its appeal, and next time I’m over, we need to watch another movie. One that’s similar, so I get why you like them (even though I already do). Or we can watch Project X. Again.
I hope you didn’t text me back because of some valid reason. I don’t know what it is, though.
You didn’t reply because you don’t want me to know that you like me and you want to play it cool. Overeagerness is no good, isn’t that what your friends told you? You didn’t reply because you had expected you’d see me this weekend anyway. You’d just text me on Friday night. Right?
You didn’t text because you are mad at me after you saw me talking with an old friend at that party last weekend. You didn’t reply because you hate the way I slur my words when I’m drunk. You didn’t reply because you’re a self-proclaimed “bad texter” or are just “too cool” to deal with it.
Or maybe you purposely ignore my texts just to let me wonder what this thing we have is. Or your friends have coached you that replying right away to a girl’s text is a sign of weakness and you are a man, you should let the woman come to you, on hands and knees. Figuratively or literally.
Okay maybe you didn’t reply because you secretly just enjoy not replying to my texts. You enjoy how uncomfortable I am, sitting on my bed, with all my seven – yes, seven – pillows around me, literally waiting around for your response. My medical ethics readings can wait, I’ll sit around all night. Maybe.
Should I send another text: ‘You’re probably sleeping. Look who’s a grandpa now’? No, that would be silly. Childish. You’ll think me rather desperate. Well I am, I can’t have you knowing such a thing. Shit, you know anyway. But no, I refuse to double-text. For now. Crap, maybe I should just hit send.
No, it’s decided. When you do reply, I’m not going to respond. I’ll wait three or four hours before replying to you. I’ll wait until the following day. Damn it, you know as well as I do, that I won’t do that.
I think you didn’t reply because you’re afraid of our relationship and you don’t like where it is headed. Or you didn’t reply because you don’t like me. Or you’re talking to another girl, or have been, or will be soon. Paranoia may be overpowering me. Stop.
From now on, I will try to be that girl I was when I first met you, because that was the girl you liked. I’ll hide how much I like you and being with you and being around you. I will play cool like I used to. But I know I can’t.
You didn’t reply because you don’t like my curly hair. You always crush on the blonde, smaller girls. You might have started crushing on that cute cashier girl at work. She flirts with you and you see her quite more than you see me in a week.
Or maybe you didn’t reply because you didn’t feel like it.
At last, I hear that much awaited message tone from my phone. It could be you or some dumb, never-ending group message. I hate those things. I pounce on my phone to investigate.
I wonder that if ten years from now we’ll reread this together and have a good laugh at how immature and adorably flustered I was.
Or a month from now, I’ll reread this by myself and suddenly become aware of the fresh burn of single life because it is gonna remind me of you while I am trying to move on.
Oh but that text, it’s from you. Finally.
Even at your worst, you are incredible.