What I wanted to tell you was
that I had messed up. I didn’t
really understand how I had,
but I had most definitely done
something horrible because I
was in this situation that comes
obviously from having really
messed up. But I wasn’t talking
to you. I was alone and not talking
about how I had messed up, just
thinking about the fact that I surely
must have and that it was something
horrible, the stuff of scary movies,
and I was pacing around, back and
forth, in my apartment that was all lit
up in the middle of the night wondering
how on earth I could have messed up
so horribly. I kept picking up my phone
to call you then walking over to the com
puter that sat at the desk sometimes—
that is where it was at the moment—
almost ready to type to you that a bad,
bad thing had happened, almost ready
to hear your voice say “Hello,” and then
somehow manage to get out the words
about the situation I found myself in,
but I just could not bring myself to do
either of these things. Instead, I just
kept pacing the apartment realizing
what a horrible pickle I had gotten
myself into but wondering like mad
trying to figure out whatever it was
I surely had done to get myself into
this mess.
