He only called her when he was traveling. And had had too much to drink. It was always the middle of the night wherever he was.

He called to say variations of the same thing every time: that he was selfishly happy that she had not found anyone else. That she was alone. That he had not stopped thinking about her – even though he was now with someone else. He wanted her to know that she was special, unlike anyone he had met, and that he planned to write about her someday in his next book.

She barely needed to speak: the conversation was really about him.

There was a time when she would have found this oddly flattering. But not anymore. She didn’t need the empty words of this long ago lover.

She hung up on him mid sentence.

He called again. This time, she did not answer at all.

He called again. She turned off her phone and slept soundly.


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