Fried, Vocally and Otherwise

I’d planned to break up with Cindi tomorrow night. Her appetite for me outstrips my appetite for her. It’s a shame, really. She’s quite accommodating and not at all bad looking. The first time I saw her I wanted to kiss her. But she smokes (granted, she’s trying to quit—just for me) and she looks a little too much like my father’s second wife. 

The ugly truth? I’m not looking for my match. I’m looking for a woman I can worship, idolize, set high upon a diamond studded plinth. I want a woman I’ll never feel worthy of, a woman I’ll never quit pining for. 

Cindi left a fraught message on my machine this evening, before I came home from work. It wasn’t what she said as much as how she said it. If the creaky front door of a dilapidated old house could speak, it’d sound a lot like Cindi. So, even though it was late, I had to call her back. 

She picked up in the middle of her machine’s greeting. She sounded groggy, like she’d cried a lot. But when I asked her about it, she said she hadn’t cried at all. Her mother had called earlier with some bad news. Cindi’s little sister attempted to kill herself last week. It’s not clear how or why. A doctor has since put her sister on some heavy medication. 

Cindi said she’d called me only because she wanted to hear my voice. 

I didn’t know what to say. 

25 April 2000

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