Despertar

my hughvior

I'm a little drunk. A lot drunk. Hugh made me cocktails to take my mind off the pain. Thank Hugh, Hugh glorious bastard.

Here's what happened. Two nights ago, on the phone, a cancellation and an equivocation: "I'm going to bed early tonight; we can hang out this weekend, though."

"Okay, then I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Well, no, not tomorrow, how about Saturday? Ian's band is performing, let's go watch."

Perfect. So I spent Friday hardly worrying about Justin, our rescheduled plans still twenty-four hours in the future. I've been invited to see Ian's band several times, but never been before; I was looking forward to it, kind of, but mostly looking forward to the sex afterward.

But then, today, I called around five, left a message because Jus was at the gym: "Hey, it's me, just wanted to find out what time you wanted to meet up tonight for Ian's thing. Call me back, bye!"

No call back. Around seven, a text message: "I'm still on the fence about Ian's thing. I'm gonna do work until ten or eleven, call me then and we'll figure this out."

So I busied myself till ten, went out for drinks with friends. Got invited to do more, afterward, but blew them off because of Justin and Ian. Called Justin at ten: "Hey, what's the plan? We going to see Ian, or no?"

"Well...I'm still on the fence. Really tired, not sure if I want to leave the house or not. So..."

Several minutes of awkward back-and-forth ensued. Me trying not to insist, because I really didn't give a shit about seeing Ian's band so much as I cared about the sex afterward, but wanting a definitive answer, because I was trying to decide whether to shave my legs or not. Justin clearly not really wanting to leave his house, his bed, but wanting to keep his options open as long as possible.

Finally, he said, "Well...okay, I'm going to get back to work for now, and I'll call you when I get to a good stopping place. Okay?"

"Okay."

So I busied myself killing time till the next call. I had already blown off my other plans for the evening, and there wasn't really anything else to do besides clean, shower, watch TLC. For two hours I did all three, cradling my phone like an infant in my free arm. As far as I was concerned, we had plans unless Justin explicitly said otherwise. I chose an outfit. I shaved.

He never called back. I broke down two hours after the initial phone call. "What's the plan, Stan?"

"Oh...I think I'm going to stay in tonight."

"Well, okay...do you want me to come over, then?" (Not as a concession, not out of the blue, but because part of our earlier conversation had involved flirting about imminent sex, which I assumed was part of his plan, even if Ian wasn't.)

"I guess. I mean, if you want to."

Hardly the warm reception I was looking for. "Don't let me twist your arm," I said, nastily. I'm not known for saying things like that. I'm known for not saying things like that. I never snark.

"Oh. Well, I mean...I'm in bed already. I'm watching that show you told me to watch. I don't like it. I'm better than this show."

Leading me to two conclusion: (1) that he wasn't working anymore, and hadn't been for quite some time, and (2) that he had never intended to call and update me with that information. That, had I not broken down and called, I would have been staring at my phone at three o'clock in the morning, wondering whether we were going to see Ian's band.

BLAH.

"Well, so, give me some direction. do you want me to come over, or don't you?" Me, in my most unpleasant voice possible, which isn't that unpleasant, even.

"I guess not. Not tonight. Tomorrow, though, for sure."

"Fine. Bye." I hung up abruptly, hoping he read the curtness in my tone, hoping it stung him.

*

So I called Hugh. He offered to make me a drink and listen to my tale of woe. I could hear the glasses clinking over the phone, so I knew he was for real. He was already pouring peach schnapps into a glass as I hastily pulled on my boots and trotted down toward the car.

Here's the thing: I slept with Hugh. Twice. It was ill-advised and it sparked a whole other dimension that almost ruined our friendship for a while. So I don't know what to make of these platonic talks, these supportive ohthatjustins he deals out in spades. He doesn't like Justin much, but he fears him, feels sufficiently intimidated that he would never assert that position. He doesn't like Justin, but I don't think it's because of me. It's not a jealousy thing. It's pure dislike of Justin, purely. Maybe a little bit because of me. Maybe because he's always the first person I call when Justin fucks up. A la Chris Rock.

I'm here now. He made me cocktails, he got me drunk. He's telling me stories about the girls he's met on Match.com. He's playing Madeleine Peyroux for me.

We don't like each other, don't want to bone each other. We don't want the kind of relationship with each other that we're each currently surviving with other people. And that's all there is to it.