07.09.2002 | 5:20 p.m.
late night calls and tears.

It is 4 a.m. Tuesday night. Wednesday morning. Whatever. It could be a Friday for all I know. I am working on a paper that attempts to demystify the sixties. You can tell the end of the term is near from the number of students in the computer lab at this ungodly hour. A few boys are playing videogames and every so often, a feisty blonde yells "Will you people shut the FUCK up? There are people trying to work here." Hoots of laughter follow and some African kid imitates her and so she walks out and slams the door and comes back with a security guard in tow. The security guard - podgy, British, innocuous - chides them mechanically and makes sure they leave. They verbally abuse the blonde but she is already revelling in the clickety-clack of her keyboard. I mentally thank her for having the balls to stand up to the daily hijackers of the lab and try my hardest to tie up the loose ends of this paper.

"So basically, all the peace and love went to shit when they realised that incense smelled really bad and that after a while, smoking weed got as mundane as everything they were protesting against." I wish I could say that. Dom is one of my favourite professors,though, and I really want him to have a good impression of me. But it's 4:15 a.m. I am tired. I haven't eaten in 5 days. I can't stop crying silent tears and I have to tell everyone I have some uncontagious infection. My body doesn't remember what it feels like to ingest because after all, 120 hours are longer than 5 days. I have hurt someone I love very much. I can't stop hurting him. I want him to hate me the way I hate myself. But he doesn't. He says he loves me and will continue to love me through all the bullshit I am going through. He says I don't deserve all this bullshit I am going through. Bullshit. It isn't bullshit. It's the truth. I'm a loser. But I want to talk to someone who will keep me alive tonight and despite everything, he says he will call me later.

4:30 a.m. It's a typical English March night. Cold, stark, lonely with a sharp wind stabbing those who dare to challenge it. I have to walk back alone. I am scared. I shake my head with amusement at the irony of my fear and sing softly to myself for the entire 10 minutes it takes me to reach home. I check my phone to see if I have missed his call. Even though the ringer is more than adequately loud, even though I didn't put my hand in my coat pockets so I could hold it. Nada, obviously. I put the key in the hole and push the door open as discreetly as I can. A slow painful creak breaks the pounding silence. The harder you try, the harder you fall. As soon as I shut the door, I put the phone on 'Silent' mode incase it rings and wakes up my landlady and her husband. She sleeps in a room on the ground floor of the house. Her husband sleeps in a bedroom on the one above it. I walk up the three flights of stairs and throw myself on the bed. My eyes sting with sleep deprivation and excessive crying and when I look at the phone, I want to cry even harder because it says "1 missed call." I put the ringer back on and look at the phone with pleading eyes. It rings. "Private number calling" says the screen. I answer.

It's 4:55 a.m. I am tired. I haven't eaten in 5 days. I can't stop crying silent tears and I have to tell everyone I have some uncontagious infection. My body doesn't remember what it feels like to ingest because after all, 120 hours are longer than 5 days. "Hello?" I say, hoping my voice doesn't sound as broken as it feels. A warm friendly voice replies. I tell him I'm sorry. I tell him I've fucked up. I tell him....I don't know what else I tell him. I grope for words but I manage to catch only random ones. Sentences escape my mouth without dressing sensically. I sit on the window sill and open the window and let the dawn into my room to get rid of the claustrophobia I feel. Static intrudes our conversation (is it a conversation? is it me babbling incoherently?) and I feel his voice fading away. "Hello? HELLO?" I've just realised that "hello" is probably the dumbest thing to say in situations like these. Wouldn't "Bye" be more apt? The line goes dead.

The tears have been rolling down my cheek since this afternoon. Through class, through research in the library, through a conversation with Brett, through working on my paper, through talking to him on the phone. They still won't stop. I am shivering and I lay down in bed under the covers and even though I know I should shut the window, I enjoy hearing the wind outside. How? How can someone be so tender when the recipient of the tenderness is a selfish cow? Anecdotes of his constant kindnesses play in my mind; all his words of encouragment and support give me the warmth I need. I wonder if he will call back. Probably not. I stare at the cellphone for several seconds. 5:24 a.m. I have to be up in 2 1/2 hours. Sleep gently pats my head and like a baby, I indulge him. My right hand still clutches the phone tightly. But five minutes later when it rings, when it vibrates urgently, I don't hear or feel a thing.

deja vu? | jamais vu?