I wasted all day waiting for her to call.

Figuratively speaking, not literally.  I broke the waiting into blocks of time – morning, afternoon, night – and filled them with interruptible activities, the kind you can drop and pick up again if something better comes along.  Grading on UCLA’s hyperinflated curve.  Writing papers that even I don’t want to read.  Culling the piles of books and articles that carpet my apartment.

By yesterday afternoon I knew she wasn’t going to call.  Getting together to hike was a no-go, collateral damage in her world going wrong.  I figured she was torn about it, wishing she could just forget her commitment to hang out, feeling guilty that she stood me up, groping for a safe way to apologize and explain.

My guess?  She’d send me an email.  No, I take back the guess part.  I knew she’d send me an email.  The favorite communication medium of jittery conflict-averse girls like her.  It might also be easier for her to email than call, judging by the way she hung up on me.  The only guessing was when she’d hit that send button.  Sooner, if she still wanted to be friends.  Later, if things had changed.

Instead it’s both:

Nick,

Sorry about our plans.  I spent the time with my family and never got a chance to call you.

I’m flying back to Kansas City.  It was great to meet you.  Good luck in Tijuana next year, and thanks for everything.

Take care,
Nooshin

The timestamp is 2:37 AM.  The middle of a sleepless night.  She’s going back to whatever caused her to run away.

I already know what I think about that.  I think it’s none of my goddamn business.  Nooshin gave no invitations to her personal life and deflected me when I pried.

The more I dwell on her email, the more I lurch in two directions simultaneously.  Part of me resumes my solitary march to the horizon of life, knowing that I’m unbreakable in my own way.  But another part of me is extended in disappointment, reaching after her without really knowing why.

Like a trained historian, I’m already boxing Nooshin away in the past.  In my memories I can see her perfectly, a shivering stick figure on the windy lip of Canyon Sin Nombre, a bony ass in my rearview mirror, a headscarfed girl staring into the traffic of Avenida Revolucion.  But her face, half-turned away to hide her wandering eye, is strained and anxious, watching for something that has nothing to do with me, nothing the fuck at all.