Insult to injury round two

He really shouted, "Hey, Heartless!" to me as I was walking to my door. The Musician. (Heartless as in my pseudonym in this blog. He really didn't refer to me as heartless.)

I knew this would happen! I told you! I told you I would walk home one night and find him here. I would find him with my roommates and would be perfectly civil but would wish secret, angry curses against him.

So he's outside. Right now. And part of me wishes he'd wander past my room. Part of me does. Despite my appearance. Despite the pajamas of assorted Ex Wear. Despite my anger. Despite my present state of hunched over my computer.

I went into my kitchen to get water, found myself (logically, mind you) unloading the dishwasher, then feeling paranoid that he'd walk in and find me and how dare I unload the dishwasher! How dare I unload my dishwasher at my house whenever I want.

It's not the dishwasher. It's the thought that another person cannot deal with me. Cannot see himself unloading dishes or hanging out or merely texting back. Calling me back. That's where we stand. He refused to call me back. I saw him last week at my favorite bar. On my turf. And again tonight. On. My. Turf.

Leave. My. Turf.