Meet me at my window.

She was babysitting her roommate's dog. He was small and white and fluffy. Her roommate was gone on another one of his trips, this time for 2 weeks to faraway places such as Vermont... P-town... LA. How nice, she thought.

The dog soon became her best friend. He had forgone the little bed she had made him out of her sorority blanket her Big Sister had made her as a gift for reaching initiation 5 years earlier. Instead, he preferred to sleep in her little twin bed every night, keeping her warm. If she didn't have this little dog to care for, the loneliness would have been too much. Her other 2 roommates breezed in occasionally, to pick up more clothes, maybe shower, never staying the night. She stayed every night. She had no where else to go. And neither did the dog.

After work, she would sit on the porch with the dog. Reading, drawing, whatever. It didn't matter. Anything to keep from sitting still and letting her thoughts get the better of her. Now that her roommate was gone, she could sit on the porch and smoke, instead of having to walk down the street so that he didn't see her light up. She didn't' particularly care for smoking, but what else was there to do? Plus there was always the chance that one of the other roommates would come home. She and this other roommate smoked together when he made his cameo appearances at the house. It was all she had to look forward to, because she was alone, and because she was falling for him. They would come to each other's rooms, saying "Hey, want to have a cigarette?" The magic words. Code for spending 15 more minutes together outside, a chance to have another great conversation.

So there she was, sitting on the porch steps with the dog, smoking alone. Head instinctively turned to the end of the street, so that she might see his vehicle round the corner. If he came. It only happened once during those few weeks, and when she saw him make his way to the driveway, she had to turn her head to hide the enormous smile of delight. She hated herself for being so pathetic. But it was all she had.

Today, she had swallowed an Ativan and began her ritual of sitting, reading and smoking on the front porch. Cursing her desperation, she tried to turn her head away from the end of the street. But every time she heard a car approach, she'd whip her head around and think, Fuck you to every car that wasn't his. Fuck you for not coming home and being with me. Fuck me for caring.

They had spent an amazing weekend together once, talking the whole time. He had taken her to grab something to eat, then to the bar. The next day he came to see her at work, and after she got done he came to her room and they spent another 8 hours together, talking. Talking about everything there was to talk about, and the conversation never stalled, unless she would catch him staring at her. This made her nervous and uncomfortable the first day, but by the second, she would just return his gaze. Talking had transformed in to wordless stares into eachother's eyes. It was intense. But also beautiful. The world had begun to brighten again. A few days later, he had taken her in his truck to the top of the mountain to look at the city lights. After two sexually tense hours, he finally kissed her and they made out the rest of the night. "Are you real?" he had asked."Am I dreaming? You are too beautiful to be here." Her heart felt funny. "Am I dreaming?" she had murmured in reply. The truck's windows had steamed up due to the sudden rise of temperature in the cab. When it was time to go home, he walked her to her bedroom door and said Goodnight. Was that it, she had thought, as she listened to him walk across the hall and close his door.

After that dream-like night, she didn't see him very often. Fuck, she thought, making out didn't have to ruin things. Well, she could understand if he didn't want to shit where he ate, but she was cool... didn't he know that? She knew she wasn't the only one in the picture. She wouldn't have let herself attach herself to his side like she so desperately wanted to. So she was free to moon about the house wretchedly, alone with the dog who missed his master. Free to sit on the porch and smoke cigarettes in vain.

I have my mom's cookies in the freezer, she remembered. And that last glass of wine. Her mom had sent her a care package from deep within George Bush country, that red state where football was given a life-or-death kind of importance.

They had made plans to collaborate on several works of art together one day when he dropped by her work, coffees in hand. Another great day. But then he left that night and didn't return. She knew where he went, too. He would always ask, "Well, what are you doing tomorrow night? Are you free?" But, tomorrow night never came.

Why, she silently screamed, why does he come my work, bring me coffee or cook me dinner? If the Ativan hadn't still been working (now sustained with a glass of red wine), she might have started to cry. She wasn't sure if he knew how she felt, and she so wanted to tell him, but there was never an opportunity. Tomorrow night never came. She was tired of living on edge, tired of never being the one chosen at the end of the night. Tired of being left at home when he disappeared.

Time for another cigarette, she supposed, sighing.