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"Hey."

I know that voice. I know it by the bittner numbness that floods into my chest when I hear it. I know it by the ways my heart clenches unpleasantly and my lips instantly tighten when I detect its rasp. But I do not let on that I feel anything; I keep my feelings concealed within myself. I do not smile, but I do answer.

"Hey."

I know by the look in his eyes that he wants more. He wants a smile, the ones that I shower easily on everyone that I meet regardless of whether I am acquainted with them or not. Well, almost everyone. He's not just anyone. He's a someone. He's a person with history.

The moment drags on. It is not awkward for me because I do not care about it. This moment is paper. I will take a lighter to it later on today, when I am alone in the bathroom, and I will flush the ashes down the toilet. I will not remember it by the end of this week. But it is painful for him because, in his mind, it claims importance. It means something to him in the way he used to mean something to me.

"How've you been?" he fumbles. The words spurt unevenly from his lips. I snarl inwardly. Small talk is not something I am interested in. What I am interested in is the way the pattern on the wallpaper on the wall above his head is spliced unevenly. What I am interested in is the piece of chewed bubblegum smushed on the bottom of that man's shoe over there. These are all extremely interesting things to me. Still, I pull my mind off of the intriguing things and respond.

"Good."

In the old days, I would've launched into an intricate spiel about the strange things my day has been littered with. I would mention how I was almost flattened by a Power Wheels this morning because I was dancing on the sidewalk on the way to school and didn't notice a toddler cruising down the sidewalk in a lavender plastic Jeep. I would excitedly explain how a friend of mine nearly choked on a chunk of steamed asparagus during lunch period today, and I would mull over the sound the asparagus made as it shot out of her mouth and landed on the tabletop. I could tell him about these things, but he does not deserve to know. Telling him that my day has been good is a great way of saying that I don't need him to supply me with happiness, that I am very capable of creating my own.

He hesitates. He is startled by the bleakness of my answer, but he knows he has to be contented with it because I am not going to offer him anything better. He grapples for an answer. Watching his eyes, I am reminded of automobile tires splurting through sand, rolling and scrambling for stability but unable to grip anything of sustenance between their treads.

"Well, that's...that's good."

Not for you, it isn't. But it is for me. I wasn't lying. I am having a good day. Yesterday was also nice. In fact, this entire week has been pretty damn exceptional.

"Yes, it is," I answer. And I am silent again.

Why was it so difficult for me to see what is now harshly obvious? How did I not notice that I was always the one supplying him with interesting things? We've had some good times, he and I. We were always doing strange things and coming up with odd stories and telling each other about how thoroughly wierd our lives were. But I had always kickstarted the conversations. It was always my voice piping up and prompting the adventures, tossing out flavorful tidbits of my life experiences and sending the hamsters in both of our minds scurrying to their rusty wheels.

And now, when I am unwilling to supply conversation starters, the air between us is flat.

"Well, um..." He's stuttering again. He wants more. Every part of him wants more. The strand of dark hair laced with sweat on his forehead wants more. The pale palms that I know are cold with awkwardness want more. The dark circles beneath his eyes want more. Behind the skin of his chest, the heart that is unevenly beating wants more. But most of all, his mouth wants more. The mouth with the smooth white teeth and the soft, stammering lips wants more. More words to speak. More apologies to say. But mostly it wants my mouth, so it can lose itself in my words and my stories and maybe feel like itself again.

"Yeah. But hey, I've got to go now. Good bye."

I do not say see you later. I do not say talk to you tonight. I say goodbye. And I mean what I said weeks ago, when I looked at myself in the mirror and suddenly understood that as long as I was with him, I would constantly crave more. More of him. More of the world. More of myself. I would always be wanting more of everything because I was clutching at the world the way he is scrambling for words now. I would always be wanting more and he would never be able to see how much I wanted it.

"Goodbye," he murmurs. I turn and begin walking away.

I feel his eyes on my back as I leave. I feel them touching my neck and my waist and the bare skin of my arms. They will watch me until I'm out of sight, and when they can no longer see me, they will do what I have done so many times before. They will watch a pair of scuffed shoes walking down the sidewalk on the way home. They will watch stories flicker on the television and they will watch ink-stained hands scribble words, but nothing will be right. It will all be dismembered. It will all be empty.

And staring up at the ceiling tonight, those eyes will close. After a few minutes, they will open again. They will walk to the table beside his bed, and they will look at the pictures taped above it, the ones of him and me. They will look at the walls, and suddenly it will be obvious that those walls are excruciatingly bare. In the dim light, those eyes will stare back at the pictures, and they will realize that they want more.