I get out of bed, I flip a coin to see if I should call him or not, I get heads (the "Go for it, lady!" side of my lucky 50 cent piece) (unfortunate I can't let you interpret that statement as dirty), I call him.
"I'm..." I hesitate to find the right word. "Confused," is what I come up with.
"About what?"
"Well? Um?" Maybe this is why I so rarely have great conversations; I am an notable idiot.
"Is it about why I wasn't so, ah, affectionate tonight?"
"Yes."
And then he goes off on this obviously prepared speech about something or other and this and that and he's from out of town and didn't want things to go too far and la di da.
"So we can't even have a night together?" I'm a little aghast at this point, flabbergasted at how much he thought I was expecting from our little encounter. As Suzanne said, I'm a big girl; I can take care of myself, and it's not like I didn't know he was leaving in a few days. That's ideal, actually, because all I really really want is sex right now, JESUS. The fact that I have feelings for him doesn't change the complete and utter rational behind my unadulterated desire to get some. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself. Doesn't mean I don't want to get laid (going on six months, folks, I'm allowed to be uncouth).
"No," he says, blatant rejection, ouch, that sucks. But it's kind of funny, I mean, it's a little bit hysterical in its implications. My ego was getting a little fat anyway.
And then! And then! He ends the conversation with, "But let's have breakfast tomorrow!" I'm so fucking slapped in this face with this that I just mutter, "Yeah, sure, call me in the morning," hang up, and scream into my pillow.