Every day is easier; every hour passes smoother. I keep cheating on total no-contact. I lie to myself when I see her text and respond because “this is important,” or “I’m worried about what’s going to happen to her.” I do, of course, but that’s not why I hit send. Nothing has fundamentally changed. I respond because I miss the contact. A text from her is like a methadone fix to stave off the withdrawal effects of not talking for days. I miss it but don’t really. Especially when it’s happening. A small part of me even wants to send this in a text, but I know it wouldn’t make a difference. She’d probably have to re-read it and concentrate to even know this is about her because I’m not using her name. This last trip went well–New Year’s–there was no arguing or bickering. She hid me from her regulars at Aki Beach and 604; she stayed in the car at Tamura’s while I bought her wine and groceries for dinner. She wasn’t even hiding her disrespect. If I ever want this relationship to be even cordial [author’s note: at this moment I don’t really care], it has to be completely reset. This is a textbook example of a sunk-cost fallacy; I am not getting those eight years back, and the ends can never justify the means.
All the Fiction I Care to Remember