The White Elephant in the Room

It was two hours before anyone mentioned Portugal at last night’s holiday party.

The sound of his name made me dash into a bathroom.

Lock the door.

And dry heave.

Two weeks ago, you and I were in Koreatown, singing like it mattered.

Two weeks ago, you knew where I stood:

I love you, Portugal, but you can’t keep disappointing me. These past few weeks of last-minute cancellations because of work? And on weekends? Not okay. Not acceptable.

You took responsibility for your actions.

Apologized.

Said all of the right things.

We kissed, made up and went to dinner.

As we headed to my friend’s karaoke party, I thought I knew where you stood.

But two hours later?

When we all decided to head to my place?

You hailed a cab and turned on me and my expectant girlfriends.

Baby, I’m gonna drop off my guitar.

Pick up some pot.

Imma take this cab and meet you at your place.

Yeah.

Fine.

Bad cab etiquette, Portugal, but whatever.

An hour later?

No word from you.

An hour and 30 minutes later?

You sent the ambiguous text that pushed me over the edge:

Call me OK

I’ve hit my limit

I’m sorry

You’re?

Sorry?

For what?

For disappointing me six hours after our disappointment conversation?

Hit your limit?

As in?

Your Tré limit?

Hanging-out-with-my-friends limit?

Alcohol limit?

I called.

It went straight to voicemail.

More than once.

Hit your limit?

Yeah.

Hit my limit too, Portugal.