strike
Monday, 19 December
A week later, I am surprised when he calls. We talk for almost an hour about my job search, and then during a pause, he says, “Well, do you want to talk?”
I don’t know what we have to talk about, but apparently he does, so I agree to have dinner, even though I know I won’t ever know what to say.
He comes over, and we eat takeout Japanese food. The tempura is cold.
After dinner, we sit down. He starts.
“Well, I usually have this theory, that you should date a lot of different people. But then I met you, and I really liked you. And I thought, ‘I should keep dating lots of women,’ but I only wanted to spend time with you.”
I stare at him, knees to my chests, arms folded around my knees.
He continues. “I figure there are two options. One, what I probably should do, is run.”
I nod.
He looks surprised. “What, you’re agreeing with me?”
I motion for him to go on, and he does.
“Or two, we do things on your terms.” I raise an eyebrow, and he explains. “Super casual, we see each other only when you want, whenever you call.”
I know already that this is not possible, but I let him talk for a while, and then I tell him no. We can’t continue this way. I’m not ready. I can’t do this.
He is crestfallen. Disappointed. Unhappy.
I am sorry. I say so.
We sit for ten minutes, in silence.
“Well,” he says, “I’m really tired, so I’m just going to go to sleep.” I look at him, puzzled and
sad. It reminds me of how I wanted Clerk to stay with me, even the last, last night.
I answer, “You’re welcome to sleep in my room, though that seems odd now, given our conversation.” He nods.
Eventually, he decides to leave. “I guess I shouldn’t have waited until after midnight.” It is the night of the New York transit strike.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt again. “I just don’t know right now, whether things aren’t right between us because…”
“What do you mean, things aren’t right between us?” he interrupts.
“…because I’m just not ready or because of something else…” I continue, rambling, unhappy, sick.
I hug him. He leaves.
As he walks down the stairs, I call after him, “You can come back, if the trains aren’t running…”
He doesn’t come back. I wonder if he has to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge.
A week later, I am surprised when he calls. We talk for almost an hour about my job search, and then during a pause, he says, “Well, do you want to talk?”
I don’t know what we have to talk about, but apparently he does, so I agree to have dinner, even though I know I won’t ever know what to say.
He comes over, and we eat takeout Japanese food. The tempura is cold.
After dinner, we sit down. He starts.
“Well, I usually have this theory, that you should date a lot of different people. But then I met you, and I really liked you. And I thought, ‘I should keep dating lots of women,’ but I only wanted to spend time with you.”
I stare at him, knees to my chests, arms folded around my knees.
He continues. “I figure there are two options. One, what I probably should do, is run.”
I nod.
He looks surprised. “What, you’re agreeing with me?”
I motion for him to go on, and he does.
“Or two, we do things on your terms.” I raise an eyebrow, and he explains. “Super casual, we see each other only when you want, whenever you call.”
I know already that this is not possible, but I let him talk for a while, and then I tell him no. We can’t continue this way. I’m not ready. I can’t do this.
He is crestfallen. Disappointed. Unhappy.
I am sorry. I say so.
We sit for ten minutes, in silence.
“Well,” he says, “I’m really tired, so I’m just going to go to sleep.” I look at him, puzzled and
sad. It reminds me of how I wanted Clerk to stay with me, even the last, last night.
I answer, “You’re welcome to sleep in my room, though that seems odd now, given our conversation.” He nods.
Eventually, he decides to leave. “I guess I shouldn’t have waited until after midnight.” It is the night of the New York transit strike.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt again. “I just don’t know right now, whether things aren’t right between us because…”
“What do you mean, things aren’t right between us?” he interrupts.
“…because I’m just not ready or because of something else…” I continue, rambling, unhappy, sick.
I hug him. He leaves.
As he walks down the stairs, I call after him, “You can come back, if the trains aren’t running…”
He doesn’t come back. I wonder if he has to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge.
posted 8:37 PM
1 Comments:
At 3:24 AM,
Anonymous said…
there's a gap...have you left your job yet or just looking?
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