You Did Not Call Back and I Love You for It

      The sun blinded me as I opened the bar’s door. It was 6 p.m. but it felt like 4 a.m. It was the same every day. It took so much energy to do anything, from working to living so I inched my way into the crevices of society. I guess it started three years before, shortly before I decided to move to the promise land of New York. It was supposed to be a new life, a bold life. But I spent most of my time wasting away in that bar than actually living.

      I walked down the street, ignoring people until I caught a glimpse of her face out of the corner of the eye. For I moment, I felt it was just one of those moments when you think you’ve seen something but it is just your mind playing tricks on you. Yet, I still turned, as anyone would to confirm the question. I stopped. And for the first time since I moved to this city, I looked at a magazine stand. There was no doubt about it. It was her face, the face with those brown eyes that always enchanted me, so unreal and almost fantastical. She smiled the smile I remembered so well, the image of legitimate happiness, a smile that could turn the worst of days into fantastic gifts of life.

      I picked up the magazine and stared at the cover until the vendor said, “no reading, pay for book,” in an accent from an uncharted land. I paid him and walked back home, the magazine carefully rolled up in my hand. I did not know what magazine I purchased. I did not care; I did not intend to read it; I just wanted to see her face again. The memories hurt. Nothing is worse than regret, the regret of having done something and realizing how bad you fucked up when it was too late. I hurt her and destroyed the best thing I ever had.

      I looked back at my life. I was a pitiful mess while she went on smiling. I never even thought I would get to see her do so again. Before the image, the last I remember about her were those tears that hurt me more than bullets. Each one of them weighed more than I could even bear to remember. But there it was, that smile I loved and missed, rolled up in the half-sober hands of the one person who wanted to see her the most. At home, I placed my phone on my desk and stared at it. How long had it been? A year? Two? I lied to myself by asking. I knew exactly how long it was.

      I dialed her number, my finger content to dance the familiar sequence, forming a cross with the last four digits. Something about it felt right, as if I were gaining something I lost many years before.

      The tone rang once. Shit, I thought. What the hell am I doing? She wouldn’t want to speak to me after what I said. No, for what I did.

      The tone rang again. Besides, who could say this was still her phone number? She might have changed it some time ago.

      The tone rang once more and I felt a form of relief. If she didn’t pick up, I could just pretend I never called. I could pretend and move on. But a message played. It was her voice, an apologetic voice asking to leave a message, promising to call back later. I considered hanging up. If I did not leave a message, I could pretend to move on.

      “I am sorry,” my voice cracked and I paused, “for everything.”

      She never called back and I hated her for it; I needed it. How could she smile when I suffered? The unfairness filled me with rage and a form of passion that locked me into a different mindset. I unplugged the television and worked on my novel for three weeks, never allowing myself to stop for any type of distraction. The few that knew me, sent me texts, called my phone, and even came to see me to make sure I was fine, but I never wavered. I surrounded myself by my mental world and isolated myself from society, disconnecting myself from reality.

      When I turned in my completed manuscript, my editor grinned and called it my best in three years. Before leaving her office, I requested to add a dedication, something I had declined ever since my first published work. After the third book I declined adding anything, my editor simply stopped asking. At first, she acted surprised but did not question the single sentence I wanted:

      “You did not call back and I love you for it.”