“Hey, Derek.” I say over the phone, watching reruns of Derek’s show on TV.
“What is it, Caroline?” His voice is annoyed, like I made his coffee decaf instead of full-caf.
“What, I can’t just call you?”
“No, actually, you can’t. I’m about to go on the set. Sorry, hun, maybe next time we can talk. Bye.”
“Okay, bye, sorry for disturbing you.” Yeah, right. There’s a sarcastic edge to my voice. I hang up angrily. On the TV, Derek speaks, saying, “Oh, yeah, I totally love my girlfriend. She’s awesome!” Then, he smiles the smile I fell in love with. I throw the remote at the TV in a rage. It bounces off Derek’s nose. I scowl and turn the TV off.
That night, Derek comes home, having broken his nose on set. He asks me where the TV went. I lie and say I donated it to the neighbors. The truth is that I had thrown the TV and all his tapes off of the roof of the apartment building. I lost interest in that show 3 months ago anyway. Him, too, as a matter of fact.