7/27/07

she walked into the gloomily lit bar to see a gloomily lit man sitting on a gloomily stubby bench at a table that was too big for one, but not big enough for two. it was going to be a gloomy night for sure.

he lifted his head to catch her eyes as she continued her stride, apprehensively. she had planned to give him the eyes when she walked in– the flirting, understanding, powerful, sad eyes that expressed everything all at once and put her in womanly control of the situation. yet she found that upon seeing him she was overtaken by the real emotions filling up the air. the talk she had planned in her head– coy initially to keep the interest alive and the sadness at bay, then commanding and accusing, designed to pull his lips onto hers– felt apart.

no one wanted a drink at the bar so he opened the door for her and they walked.

he had also failed to understand what talking meant. what man didn’t panic when he heard the damning words "i need to talk to you?" he must have treated all the women in his life very well to think that talking meant grabbing an innocent drink and hanging out without an agenda.

she started at the ground as he chatted about work and friends and how everyone was leaving. did he really not know what he did to her, not know that it was pressing on her heart and that the emotions had to come out?

"you’re really good at confusing me," she finally uttered.

"i know," he said. "i’m sorry."

he spoke of liking her and exes and having his heart torn out and of her leaving and of timing.

"if the timing were different, it would be a different story," he said.

she understood that, could appreciate that. her ex hadn’t left her heartbroken and she hadn’t loved him. they weren’t in the same situation at all. it didn’t matter if his ex had been a henious bitch or if she had been a fucking princess. it didn’t matter that his ex was most likely the wrong woman for him and that she could have been the right one. it didn’t matter because the emotions were still the same either way. she liked that he could have these emotions. she liked that he was devoted in a genuine, adult way, as opposed to the immature and adolscently naive devotions of past men.

"it’s too bad," she told him, "because i like you more than i’ve liked anyone in a long time."

he didn’t have to tell her that he understood or that he was sorry and he didn’t have to feel guilty either. it wasn’t for that. it was just put out there to be known. it was good for her to say and it was good for him to know.

she didn’t tell him that she was insane about him, was torn up about him and that it felt amazing and exhiliarting and that it was choking her at the same time. that would have done neither of them any good.

"i feel dead inside right now," he had said about his heartbreak.

so she also hadn’t told him how alive her made her feel. she didn’t tell him how she couldn’t eat or sleep since the day they had stayed up until 5am and that she didn’t know why because she loved eating and sleeping. she didn’t tell him that she had picked up her guitar for the first time in three weeks because he made her feel alive and inspired.

she covered the pavement with her hips slung forward and her neck straight in her posture-conscious yoga walk. she did not watch how he walked.

there were too many emotions, she knew, and it was ridiculous to feel this way. she had found pathetic and melodramatic men who had confessed their undying love to a woman without even having dated her. love is nurtured by time, she thought. love does not bloom in the face of rejection but it forms mutually. she didn’t think she loved him but she wasn’t quite sure. but she realized that emotions do not conform to the laws of logic, do not ask permission. they just do.

and so they had done.

"we can still hang out as friends," she said. it wasn’t a question.

"yeah. for sure," he said. it sounded unassuring but she knew it was genuine. though his words were muffled by heartbreak, she could feel what he meant.

they were almost at the bar where they were joining their friends. she looked in her purse for her ID, knowing that her 16 year old’s face would not permit her 24 year-old body to walk into the popular bar uncarded. she had left her driver’s lisence at home.

"i guess i’m going home," she said.

"okay," he replied.

"have a good night," she said, feeling her emotions sinking.

"you’re not going to get it and come back?" he asked

"i don’t think so. i’ve had a long day," she told him. he looked at her and she could tell that he knew he was part of that long day but that there was more that would remain unspoken.

he looked at her with remorse in his eyes but her eyes and lips also told him it was okay. it was a meaningful look that they gave each other yet she wasn’t quite sure what it did in fact mean.

before she could walk away, he pulled her into a hug. it was a nice hug, better than nice. nice was  a flimsy word for such a strong hug. he held her just long enough that she could feel his muddled affection but cut it off before they both began to feel it too much.

she didn’t expect to cry as she walked away. she had expected to feel relieved just knowing the way things would be. she had expected to be delighted with even his friendship but she was mourning the loss of a great potential. she knew how great it was.

she sobbed for a solid two minutes as she walked to her car.

then she realized that it still felt good. it still felt good to experience these emotions, to feel this alive, to care for someone like this. it would feel better if it were requited, but just the act felt good. just knowing someone so ridiculously amazing felt good.

she picked up her guitar the next day with only about ten percent less zeal than the day before.