Miss Denmark

birthday

We didn't communicate. I didn't text him and he didn't text me. I didn't write, and it wasn't because I was huffy or just wanted him to admit his flaws. But I didn't know what I would write.

What was suitable to write after he'd asked me to stay away because I'd argued about something that had affected his consciousness and self-esteem? No, I was out of options too.

Friday night I made the cake- and food preparations for Saturday. For a lot of people it would probably make more sense to invite your friends out, but we were five in total and those would fit in my tiny apartment.

Alexander wrote happy birthday.

Not that I had the time to answer because the cake was done at that moment and no one wants burned birthday cake. And then I didn't get the chance to answer.

Trisha came and helped me get everything ready before the remaining guests arrived.

They left just before five.

I picked up my phone from the kitchen counter and unlocked it.

It opened to the mail from Alexander.

I hit respond.

The cake had to be taken out of the oven, and my guests arrived so I apologize for my late answer. Thank you. I had a nice day, if you're interested.

I stared at the screen and updated my mail every ten seconds. No answer ticked into my inbox. Maybe it was a bit too passive aggressive?

Crap.

I'd wasted that one chance.

My day had ben okay, overall. Dad had called when I texted him I was up. I'd spoken to grandma. And then I'd spoken to grandma and grandad, mom's parents, and the remaining family had texted, or mailed me, happy birthday.

I'd received Dad's gift Friday.

I opened it Saturday morning while we talked.

It was a shoe rack. Something I'd wanted, now Alexander had dumped four pairs of shoes on my doorstep, for the times I'd been his date.

Trisha and my friends gave me some clothes, a book and cards.

I moved the dishes from the living room into the kitchen, stacked the dishwasher, started it, and washed the few things that couldn't fit in the dishwasher.

Still no answer.

I really wanted to hear from him.

I wanted him to... to text me back.

Yes, I'd probably hit where it hurt the most, but that didn't mean I didn't want to see him again.

My kitchen was cleaned. The living room was cleaned. Everything looked like it always did. And when my dishwasher was finished, I could fill it with the last remaining things and I'd be done.

I twirled my phone around between my fingers without really doing anything.

Someone knocked on my door.