Again, I stuck to my guns, not that it was difficult, and ignored him. But then he started calling. At first he didn’t leave messages, but when he finally started to they were long and drawn out about the sound of my voice and the smell of my skin, which you can obviously smell through my voicemail greeting, and how he was going to leave his wife so we could run away together. I can’t say for sure, but I’m almost certain he was even slightly weeping in a few of them, all while swearing he wasn’t drunk, but just missed me. Yeah, sure, sweet cheeks.
Here I am now with an aching thumb from hitting delete so many times, and eyes that have practically rolled out of my head from popping with disbelief at some of his texts and photos, and I’ve yet to come up with a solution. One would think the silent treatment would work, but we are technically dealing with someone who just might be crazier than me, so perhaps that’s not the best way to handle it. I know that if I were to respond, it would just be opening up a world of drama that I really don’t need in my life right now. I could change my number, but I’ve already done that once in the past six months, and I really don’t want to do that once more.
I’m hoping that, yet again, this is just one of his passing phases and a desperate need to be entertained by the thoughts of something or someone outside of his everyday life. But honestly, I think if I told him to come to New York City, he’d be here in a heartbeat. Granted, he’d probably be drunk when he left and sober enough when he arrived to know enough to go back home, but that’s not going to help anyone — especially his wife. In the meantime, although the incoming texts have dwindled a wee bit, I’ll just continue working my thumb muscles on that delete button. I’m going to kick everyone’s ass in a thumb war by mid-August.