...into creepiness. I almost called Sandra tonight.
She'd hung up on me weeks ago, shrieking, "You're drunk!" When, actually, I wasn't drunk at all.
There have been many times when I felt guilty over my behavior toward Sandra, but that particular phone conversation wasn't one of them. When she hung up on me, I suddenly got a flash: "She just doesn't like me. She was just looking for an excuse to hang up."
I cried and cried that night. Didn't want the real-and-true answer that I got from the ether: She was just looking for an excuse to not like me. Similar to many other "hints" that she'd given me over the past years. The most blatant being: Her not wanting to go to our former professor Wevill's reading with me. Not wanting to see Cat Power with me (when I'd bought her a ticket). Those two things were so black-and-white, so clear-cut. I still hung on after that, though, which makes me disgusted with myself.
Tonight, I had had a few beers. Was worried about Sandra's living situation. Her Sugar Daddy went semi-senile a few months ago, and his family took over and cut off her rent money, leaving her scrambling for rent/job. She had scrambled on over to Austin from Houston back in April, desperate. I had no money to offer, but tried to help with job leads and resume construction. A few days later, I found out that she'd gone back to Houston without telling me. Our contact had been sporadic after that.
I DIDN'T call tonight, thank god. I'm 49. Calling her would have been flashing me back to a much younger self, for instance: Humbling myself for no reason with apologies for no reason, just because I was so desperate for any connection with anyone. (Because a connection feels good. It's harsh to be constantly without one.)