The stories we make

Tuesday was French class. After work I first went directly to my usual coffee place, an anonymous coffee shop catering the businessman of the area. It was still early, and I had time for a little snack before my class. I ordered a cappuccino and a toast,  as I was wishing for e-reader in my bag. I told myself that I could totally enjoy my time and be content, even if Michael did not call me. Of course, if he had, I would be glad to hear from him, I would be totally cool, and not reproach him that he promised to call me last night. I would be sweet and understanding about the delay.

I switched my e-reader on, and just to make sure I would not miss his call, I put my mobile in front of me, screen up. I briefly checked that the battery was still ok and then I immerged myself in the book. After half a page my order arrived, and I pushed the e-reader aside to avoid making it dirty it. As I was busy eating and could not read my e-reader, I checked my mobile, my e-mails, my Facebook, my Instagram, my Twitter, to make sure I did not miss anything important since I left work.

Ok, nothing. I finished my toast and took my book again. After one page a notification appeared on the mobile screen, but I could easily see that it was just an unimportant app. I focused again, but my eyes kept drifting to my mobile screen. I thought I was glad that it was not like in old movies, where women stayed home next to the phone waiting for a call. I told myself that at least I can enjoy some fresh air. Why the asshole is not calling me, though. He is already off work since ages and he was supposed to call me yesterday. At the very least, he should send me a message. I checked my messenger, but there was nothing. I put my mobile on the table with a little more emphasis than required and started to get angry at him that he did not let me focus on my book. I read half a page, feeling my rage mounting, when a thought hit me hard. Maybe he is sick or injured and he needs my help. My rage evaporated, now replaced by anxiety. Should I call him, to make sure he is all right? Is it ok, if I call him in the hospital? Maybe he cannot answer. The indecision was by then knotting my stomach, and froze my fingers, on the verge of speed dial his number. I felt his pain, as my eyes almost filled with tears. Then the phone rang, waking me up from my anxious trance.

‘Oh, it’s you Simone, I was afraid it was bad news about Michael. He might be sick, he didn’t call me yesterday.’

‘Michael Wulf? He is not sick, I saw him at the library. We left together and he told me he was going to pick up his new girlfriend to catch a movie.’

I felt as if I buckets of iced water had been just poured down on me, shocking me awake.

I calmly arranged to meet my friend next week as a small tear escaped from my right eye. I hung up and look outside the window, hating myself for falling again.

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