This is hardly an apology.

He calls me.

He’s not the kind to call me. Never does. In the entirety of this relationship I’ve gotten one phone call from him that’s purpose was to communicate.
I was on speaker phone, he was bragging to his friends about sleeping with me.

Tonight, he called me. At three thirty in the morning. He’s drunk and has this story of his night, explaining perhaps why he came off such a dick at the bar.

Earlier I saw him, sitting against the wall. There’s this part of me that thinks he wants me to publically acknowledge him. As my ego is telling me to go over and say hi, the rest of me is saying don’t you fucking dare.

The ego wins.

“Hello.”

And he pulls away from me like he’s scared. Like he doesn’t know me. The ego dies a little and I don’t have time for this.

Later there’s an apology over text, where I tell him I don’t understand but I get it.

So now the phone call.

Something about something that led to something. Names I don’t know, names I don’t care about. I’m listening to him waiting for him to break my heart, because the ego always puts my heart over the train tracks. He’s not talking about me at all. I have to make everything about me and my hurt feelings. I can’t follow the story he’s telling me because I’m waiting to hear something traumatic.

He keeps pausing, setting the phone down. And there’s static that's hisses at me in intervals. I’m not sure what to do. I’ve taken too much cough medicine.

My point is, my ego has a point. There’s this mental emotional tug a war I have when he’s telling me these stories about him, about what he does. When I let my guard down and just listen, he pulls out some sentence that’ll wreck me for a week. I hate it. It’s so hard to hear. So there’s this defense mechanism, where I blog while he’s talking.