All that's left of our friendship is an empty box.
I had been dreading this step in the death of our friendship: the return of all the things I had ever let him borrow. After days of nauseating anticipation, it happened suddenly with the appearance of a box of CDs and books on my doorstep. He didn't even bother to include a note. No "hope you are well," not even a bitter "I don't care if I want you more than my girlfriend, I wish I had never met you."
Due to the drought in our communication and my knack for obsessing, I have run our former friendship through my head over and over again. Too much deep thought in this avenue eventually led to my seeing our relationship as cheap straight-to-video porno full of overstated sexual innuendo and bald-faced lies. And we never had sex, only the promise of sex. Am I really the whore of Babylon?
But enough whining. I'm past the denial stage, have moved on to the anger stage, and am thinking of heading straight for acceptance by bypassing deal-making and depression. He can try to forget me and I will try to forget him, but if I see him again, he won't remember the delightful neck nooky we shared because I'll give him something else to remember me by, like a coupla black eyes.
Yep, I've progressed.
But I still wonder if he ever thinks about me.