Emerald City blues

A dialog box pops up onscreen once I turn on my computer and it’s a message Heather must have sent me while I was offline. Call me when you read this it says alongside her new mobile number. We haven’t really spoken to each other for a few months now ever since this kind of nasty falling out we had last June, in which she left my apartment in the middle of the night in fact almost slamming the elevator door in my face for something I might have done or said.

But that’s the cool thing with Heather though, we always bounce back: We started going out some five years ago and ever since that first night she slept over we’ve been seeing each other in installments, for periods of one to two months, then not seeing each other for say an entire half-year, and starting it all over again. Most times I treat her like trash, but sometimes she treats me like trash too.
Maybe in the end we’re just using one another. Or maybe we really do like each other but we’re not entirely honest about it.

Of course by the time I see her message the first thing that crosses my mind is that I’m definitely starting the year getting some, which prompts me to call her up right away.

“I wanted to say goodbye,” she tells me from the other side of the line with a very cold, detached tone. “I’m moving to Seattle a couple of weeks from now.”
“You’re moving to where?!,” I ask her, wondering if I heard it right the first time. I mean, Heather probably couldn’t even spot Seattle on a map the last time I saw her.
“To Seattle,” she says slowly as if explaining to an old person. “That’s in Washington, in the Northwes…”
“I know where Seattle is,” I don’t let her finish her line.
“Cool,” she says flatly, then goes on to explain she’s enrolled at this course or another in Seattle and that she’s expected to live there for at least a couple of years, emphasizing all the proper words almost perversely.
“Cool,” I say flatly, not really meaning it, then bid her the proper farewells and good lucks, and invite her for a sendoff dinner and maybe a few drinks, who knows.
“Sure, that will be great, who knows,” she replies, but not really meaning it.