I didn’t know I could be so vulnerable. I didn’t know I could set myself up so well for getting plowed down, but that’s exactly what had happened.
I realized after the confrontation with the SoHB’s girlfriend that I had set myself up to help bring her fantasy scenario to life. If the girl disliked me so greatly, she would naturally have her own hopes of telling me off and getting the upper hand, just as I had imagined taking off her blinders. My hasty, drunken scheme had backfired. Not only had my plan failed, but I had provided a ripe moment for her to carry out her own. The victory was hers. Surely she knew her words had wounded. Surely she knew I ended up crying on The Flirt’s shoulder the rest of the night. Surely they both knew.
Reason told me not to think in terms of victory and defeat. I felt shame despite knowing that I had nothing for which to be ashamed. It was a mistake speaking with her and my motives were admittedly selfish, but I hadn’t failed to treat her respectfully. I did not belittle her or even the SoHB, cast no aspersions about either of them, but stuck with the facts. Reason reminded me that I hadn’t stooped to her cruel tactics and that there is no shame in being sensitive to another’s cruelty, but it’s very hard listening to reason when you know you’ve been foolish. It’s very hard to feel your dignity is intact after a failure, even when you know your behavior in the face of it is the true test.
I saw him online on Monday following the confrontation. I couldn’t allow my humiliation to be the final word. Reason lost to pride. I worried about damage control. I had let her get to me … exposed my vulnerability. That moment couldn’t be undone, so now I hoped to prove that I could be the bigger person about it all.
“Your girlfriend is funny.” I stated. “I like her.”
“Yeah?” he answered.
“I mean, she was trying to be mean to me, but that’s understandable. I never had anything against her. It’s no biggie.”
“Yeah. I was unaware you two were chit chatting,” he said.
Chit chatting? What had she told him about our conversation?
“We ended up in the bathroom together … at the same time.”
“Yah.”
“I knew she had issues with me. She gave me a look to kill when I first saw her on Patch’s birthday, and I’ve just gotten a ‘bad vibe’ off of her ever since. So, I thought we might settle that. … But, … she just isn’t going to like me, and that’s cool. I don’t have a problem with her, and I don’t take it personally. She doesn’t even know me.”
“We can’t all get along I guess,” he said.
I chuckled. “I guess not. It takes two.”
I felt very self-satisfied that I had accomplished my mission. Dignity restored.
Four days later, the frustration returned. Turns out the Dignity Restoration Project had a short shelf life.
I messaged the SoHB again on Friday afternoon. It started with jovial remarks about how he was abandoned in the office, but who was I kidding? There was more on my mind than small talk.
“You know you’re doing the whole ‘mixed messages’ thing again, don’t you?” I asked, and, before he could jump to conclusions, added “(and I’m not implying the romantic variety, so don’t go freaking out.)”
“No, I don’t know what you are suggesting,” he answered, “But I am about to leave. I don’t want to get into any sort of discussion like that.”
Of course not. Another dodge. There was always a dodge when the topic became too personal. Either he was busy on a project at work and couldn’t talk, or he wasn’t feeling well, or it suddenly became necessary to leave work early … ad nauseum.
“I’m just tired of making all the effort…” I said.
“You don’t have to make any effort,” he interrupted. The comment stung, but I continued.
“… while you say one thing, but do another.”
“Okay. What do you mean?”
Suddenly, he had time to talk.
“I mean that if being friendly with each other is too much for you, or is something you really don’t care for, you should be straightforward about that. ‘Cause I approached you about this despite … well, despite a lot … and you sounded receptive, and made some assertions that this was something you cared about … If you had said something to the contrary, I wouldn’t have wasted my time putting in any effort.”
“I thought perhaps we could be friends, but now I doubt that’s possible.”
“I need more explanation. You’ve changed your mind? Or … huh?”
“Well, there are many reasons. If you are going to force the issue, I better make a decision.”
“Am I forcing the issue? What is the issue, do you think?” Asking for straightforward communication was forcing an issue?
“You always get critical of me when I am noncommittal, as if I am avoiding saying anything with any meaning,” (isn’t that the definition of noncommittal?) “but the thing is you are far too intense about all this … to me … in my opinion, that is.”
That one stung, too. I had been too intense, drifting far from my original commitment of reaching out to him, making myself approachable, and leaving it there. I knew it and regretted it.
“I try to keep things light and casual,” I explained “… and be aware of my own boundaries, because things that happened were very hurtful, and having them go unrecognized expands on the hurt … but when I don’t feel that even the lightest, most casual contact is reciprocated, that just expands on the old hurt.
“In a nutshell,” I continued, “I said, ‘Wanna try and be friends?’ and you said, ‘Okay,’ so I have gone about trying to be friends … e-mails, IMs, and so on … because that’s what friends do; They chat. And you respond when necessary, but that’s it.”
“Every time I have encountered you in person, things have been tense and awkward. That last bit of business was no good. Possibly a turning point.”
“And, you know, what I’m talking about has fed into that.”
“You are trying to suggest that I am indirectly responsible for that turn of events.”
“Oh yes.”
“That your frustration or whatever with me led you to try to get into a discussion with Michele in the bathroom.”
(Have I been misspelling her name all this time? Who spells it like that, except guys in France? … or Quebec?)
“Yes.”
“It was a terrible idea. You had left, hadn’t you? Did you come back to talk to her?”
“It was a terrible idea, but, no, I just found us both there.”
“You do not like her. Why would you try to talk to her?”
“I don’t know her. I have no opinion of her. But I could tell that she didn’t like me.”
He then accused me of saying vicious things about her, saying I had sent him an e-mail once that was very rough. While I had sent him a couple of bitter e-mails, none were about her. In fact, I barely ever mentioned her. I had anticipated an accusation about my pet name for her, but this was unexpected. I denied ever having sent an e-mail about her and reiterated what I had explained to Michelle – that any comments made were due the problem I had with him and not about her.
“You need to move on. This was a year ago,” he said. “I’m not going to argue any of the points you have against me.”
I physically recoiled. Thank heaven he couldn’t see me.
“Well, when a friend hurts you right where you’re vulnerable, it doesn’t just go away. A year really isn’t so long. And I’m surprised that losing my friendship doesn’t seem to bother you at all. That’s shocking, actually.”
“A year is a long time.”
I felt as if I were in a rerun of my conversation with Michelle.
“Look, I'm sorry I've said things that could be taken as hurtful to Michelle. I'm sorry for the times I've reacted badly. It always happened at moments when I felt completely helpless. That's no excuse, but that's why.”
“I don't want bad blood, I hate it, but you have to understand, my life is a lot different now …”
“So is mine, and that's why I wouldn't want to return to the way we were, even if it were possible.”
“…I have a girlfriend, it's been almost a year. I'm afraid things are not going to improve between you two. I'm not throwing any blame for that. My fault; Her fault; Your fault; It doesn't matter.”
I had completely lost control of the conversation. Time to get refocused and off the defensive.
“Basically, all I'm saying here -- what this conversation was started about -- was because, in an effort to regain some rapport again, I took steps to make that happen. You hem-hawed around about accepting it....”
“I didn't know if it would work out, but I didn't just want to say, ‘No, forget it, good luck.’”
“Well, a little effort would have been appreciated, and would have made the difference, just so you know. I didn’t ask for much you might remember. And, honestly, I don’t have much faith anymore. I thought there might be some kind feelings here, but I really just feel like I’ve been patronized.”
“Like I say, my life has changed a lot. I wish well for you, but I don’t know that I can give you the kind of effort you want.”
“I don’t know how that is supposed to be an answer. I really don’t know what kind of effort you think I want, because what I asked for was practically nil.”
“Effort as in meeting for coffee? Talking on the phone? Hanging out?”
Another one out of left field. Where was he getting this stuff?
“I never said anything about us hanging out. I hoped we might develop enough comfort with each other to have a phone conversation now and then … not regularly. And meeting for coffee was a distant possibility, dependent on how well we got along here and in e-mail. How silly do you think I am?” I swear, did he ever actually read anything I ever sent him? Were all my messages secretly encrypted beyond recognition by little e-mail fairies?
“I don’t think you are silly. I just thought I was keeping things on the level that worked best, but you say that it’s nothing, so I am just trying to figure it out.”
“I merely thought that if you wanted to be friends, you might reciprocate some of the attention I was paying you, and I wouldn’t have to twist your arm just to chat on IM.”
At this point he said he needed to leave for an event of his sister’s.
“One thing, okay?” I added before he could bolt. “I brought this up tonight (despite my better judgment) because it has been very frustrating trying to be friends or friendly with someone who says “okay” to you in one way, but barely recognizes you in another. And it does feed into tension when we see each other. I don’t see any way to much avoid seeing each other at all … same friends, same city. It’s going to happen. But I would like to avoid the tension.”
“I would, too. Perhaps it’s possible.”
And with that, he was off for his event.
Despite the slightly hopeful conclusion, I knew there was no hope. It really was the end. I cried a few tears as I sat there letting his words sink in. He truly had distorted who I was and what I wanted, accusing me of things I had never said … even saying I expected things I had explicitly said I didn’t want. Like, hanging out? When I offered him with the chance to reconnect without rehashing our old differences, one of the boundaries I vehemently expressed was that I had no interest in being his drinking buddy again, EVER!! And with the SoHB, there isn’t much hanging out if there isn’t any drinking. I felt as though I finally had a picture of myself through his eyes, and I was merely a shell of my true self. Not a real person, but a shadow. It was no wonder he couldn’t value me enough to even carry out a satisfactory correspondence when he had made me out to be a completely different person than I was. And, who was he to tell me I needed to move on?!! That statement infuriated and scared me at once. What did he know about me or my life to say such a thing? Here I was attempting to overlook his crimes in order to give him a chance at possible redemption, and he sits in judgment of me?!! But, then again, what if he was right? What if I was hoping after something that no longer existed for him? Those comments about it having been a year and “a year is a long time”… they haunted me sometimes without his or Michelle’s help. I didn’t need reminding. It frightened me sometimes to think of how strongly I still felt and how often I still thought of him. It frightened me to think that he’d had more than enough time and distraction to lose all affection for me.
Although I cried over the shredding of my last vestige of hope, I couldn’t give much to it. I had spent so much time worrying over how he thought of me and how he felt about me, but this confrontation revealed that when he thought of me … my name, my face, my soul … he wasn’t truly thinking of me at all, but some mythical creature of his own invention. I was sad over it, but couldn’t take it personally if he chose to warp my words into his own meaning.
I called *Rachel once my cry was done and asked if I could come over. I never spoke of my conversation with the SoHB. She never asked what was bothering me. We sat on her couch watching TV for a couple of hours.
In the months since, I have not spoken with the SoHB or seen him. My birthday passed without any acknowledgment from him. I hadn’t expected any, but still hoped. In one of our frivolous IM conversations I had teased about the extravagant lengths he could take to make up for ruining my birthday and neglecting it last year. I had hoped to receive an e-mail card … something. So, when his birthday rolled around two weeks later, I did for him what he didn’t do for me, hoping it might nudge his conscience. I sent a humorous e-card link with no more personal a message than, “Have fun. Be safe.” He replied with an equally stark “Thank you, Kwirki.” I expected to run into him on a couple of occasions, but he never showed.
It was a silent summer and autumn between us, and yet so eventful, full of revelations and new conflicts. It was a season of growth beyond my imagination. And, despite the distance, the silence between us, I wonder if the SoHB might be a beneficiary of it yet. There is something unfinished. I’m just waiting to see what it is.
* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.
Dec 7, 2005
Nov 20, 2005
Truth Seeking: Making a Mess
The truth is not so glamorous a virtue, but it never lets us down, and it always wins. The truth about ourselves or the truth about others. There is no need to differentiate.
Isn’t there comfort in knowing the old cliché is correct? The truth shall set us free.
I have been silent for a few months now in more ways than one while in pursuit of truth. Silent here. Silent with the SoHB.
There was naturally a course of events which precipitated my last word and led to this silence. And other than the long history upon which I have already expounded, it began with my attempts to set right what I hadn’t made wrong. Desperately wanting everything to turn out the way I knew it could and should be I took upon myself the responsibilities of making amends which were actually his. After all, I had made terrible mistakes as well, and someone needed to be strong stomached enough to go first in swallowing their pride.
Seeing that I was the one who shot the last darts, I knew I had left him wounded, probably too wounded to risk approaching me. I wished to make myself approachable, to show I had softened, but I wanted this softening to be met with an obvious desire for reconciliation. My olive branch was well received, and even seemed appreciated, but I didn’t receive an offer of its return – the one ingredient necessary for laying a new foundation of mutual respect. I should have left mine at his door and walked away, but he answered with such warmth and friendliness, I couldn’t help but stand there waiting for the invitation inside. When it wasn’t forthcoming and no olive branch was offered in return, I felt exposed and vulnerable while being shamelessly patronized. My cup of frustration and resentment ranneth over. That was when I made my mistake.
Upon realizing that I had extended myself far beyond reason and my efforts would not be reciprocated, I was determined to keep my distance. Two weeks had passed without a word between us, but it wasn’t long enough for me to completely surrender wishing he would reach out to me in some small way. I told myself that I deserved to have my effort at reconciliation reciprocated. I deserved to be shown the appreciation he claimed having for it, but it was noticeably absent. I couldn’t abuse myself further. But on a fateful night, I broke my silence.
The band I loved so much was returning to town – the same band that had played the night I first saw her – and subsequently poured a drink down the SoHB’s shirt. I had managed to get a large group together for this show and enjoyed myself splendidly, until many rum & Cokes into the evening I panicked upon seeing most of the group leaving. Fear of being left behind spurred me to follow, even while knowing I was leaving Rachel* and her weekend guest behind. While walking to another neighborhood bar, who should we encounter but the SoHB and Michelle. The Flirt had talked on his cell with him before the show, and I had even offered my own greeting by proxy. The possibility he might come out was always in the back of my mind, but I didn’t think it likely. I solemnly walked along as my stomach turned at the thought of being around them.
At the bar, the group mingled briefly before splitting. I was standing in loose association with the SoHB and The Flirt, trying to be polite but not really paying attention, until The Flirt left to play pool with Alley*. Left alone with the SoHB, a scant moment passed before he exclaimed, “Kwirki! You look so skinny!”
With all the pent up indignance I felt regarding his lack of attention over the past several weeks, I exclaimed right back, “That’s because I AM skinny!” and traipsed off in a huff. My rum soaked brain thought I had thrown him a real zinger.
Rachel showed up incensed over having been left behind, and rightfully so since I was her transportation to the show. My apologies had not appeased her by the time she was ready to leave. Since I was her transportation, but not yet ready to leave myself, she declared that she would call a cab. I couldn’t allow it knowing she would feel resentment over being stranded once more. I decided to drive her the short distance home and return, a trip lasting no more than twenty minutes.
Without stopping to greet anyone upon returning, I immediately went to the restroom. After secluding myself in a stall, I heard Alley greeting someone with a familiar voice … someone wearing strappy heels and aqua colored Capri pants that I could see from below the partition. Alley went out and the two of us were the only ones left in the room. Flashes of fantasy conversations swept through my mind. So many times I had pictured us having a moment alone which might inspire questions or revelations about the true nature of my relationship with the SoHB.
“Michelle! Michelle, is that you?” I called out from my hiding place, knowing I was making a huge mistake, but unable to stop myself.
“Yeah. Who is that?” She asked.
“This is Kwirki. Hang on a moment, would you?” I hurried to right myself so I could make those imaginary talks become reality. “Hang on. I’ll be out in a second.”
She was standing by the sink when I emerged to face her. She watched me expectantly.
“Hey, Michelle. I just wanted to talk to you because I’ve known for some time that you don’t like me, and I was wondering why.”
She stared at me incredulously and then claimed she didn’t know what I was talking about.
“I know you don’t like me.” She continued shaking her head, acting oblivious, but I wasn’t having it. “I know it; I’ve been told, so there’s no use denying it.”
Yes, I had been told. It was during a delightful drive on a shopping trip when Rachel revealed it. The SoHB’s friend, Jeri*, had told Alley that Michelle didn’t like me. She didn’t like me at all, she’d said. Sweet Rachel was afraid the news might upset or anger me. Angry? I was delighted! It reinforced what I’d been telling people for months, but sensed that no one really believed me. The girl couldn’t stand me! I felt validated.
I watched as her expression shifted from false incredulousness to acceptance.
“Well, you’ve said things about me.”
I suspected as much. My pet name for her wasn’t meant to be flattering. For months it galled me to call her his “girlfriend.” In truth, it still did. And so, since the SoHB had neglected to ever mention her name and because of the more lascivious reasons he expressed in seeking a relationship, I felt justified in bitterly referring to her as “the SoHB’s whore.” It wasn’t meant as a personal insult, but of course I knew it would be taken that way if she ever caught wind of it. I didn’t care. Let her think ill of me; She meant nothing. Still, I wondered who had given me away.
“I’ve never said anything that was about you, Michelle. I don’t know you.”
“People have told me things you’ve said about me,” she added.
“I’ve said things that I know could be taken that way, but none of it was really about you. I don’t even know you. He’s the only one I’ve had a problem with,” I said, thinking I was being very reasonable.
“What did you say about me?” she asked.
I knew the score. She was baiting me.
“I’m not going into that, but it wasn’t really about you…”
“What did you say, Kwirki?” she pressed.
“I’m not going into that …” I said again, but she continued. “Never mind,” I chuckled, shaking my head and walking to the door. She wasn’t going to let the conversation be anything more than a Jr. High showdown, and I wasn’t interested. I realized that all my imagined conversations had included something she didn’t have … a willingness to hear, a desire to learn the answers to all those unasked questions and resolve those needling doubts she must have about the gaps and inconsistencies in the SoHB’s version of the story.
She called after me as I grabbed the door handle with a comment that must have made me think it worth one last effort, for I turned and walked back to her.
“Look. I know I’ve said some things that could be construed to be about you, but nothing I’ve said was ever really about you. I don’t have a problem with you; I don’t know you. My issues have been solely with him and how he began this relationship.”
Next thing I know, she tells me that she’s heard I’m crazy … how everyone says so and not just the SoHB. I pressed to know who, and she answered that it had come from The Flirt for one. Her blow hit its intended target. She had unearthed one of my fears … that my acts of rage and desperation had turned me into a revolting creature, even to my friends. I was shocked and dismayed to learn that The Flirt had spoken openly and malevolently about the offense I committed against him. She was only too pleased to point out that doing things like pouring a drink on someone and my offense against The Flirt were proof of my craziness. I held onto my dignity by a thread.
With a remark about how she and the SoHB had been together a year, she spared me from further revealing how deeply her words affected me by providing the opening for which I'd hoped.
“A year? Did you say it has been a year?” I asked incredulously. She replied that it had. “Has it really been a year? Because you wouldn’t know it by the way he was treating me a year ago.”
She wasn’t buying. “Why should I believe you, Kwirki? . . . the person everyone says is crazy. The SoHB told me that he made it clear to you that you didn’t have a relationship.”
I snorted. “Well, I don’t know how clear it’s supposed to be when he was cuddled up in my bed after starting to see someone else.” I wanted to go on. I wanted to laugh at her for taking his words at face value. She should know him well enough by now to realize that his chronic indecisiveness won’t allow him to make anything clear. But I didn’t get the chance.
“Why do you care, Kwirki?” she interrupted. “It’s been a year. Why do you still care?”
I blankly stared at her for a split second. It was the same question I continually asked myself and could never find a satisfactory answer. Thankfully, I was saved by The Flirt coming in the door to break us up. The humor of him coming into the women’s restroom barely registered as he ushered us out. My mind was still consumed with Michelle’s revelation.
“Wait, Flirt!” I said following him. “Wait, I need to ask you something.”
I caught up with him and began the interrogation.
“Michelle said you told her I was crazy. Why would you tell her that? Her, of all people. Why?” I instantly broke into tears.
It happened back when he was angry over what I’d done to him. It was just talk, he explained; just shooting off steam. I clung to him as I cried, my mascara leaving lash marks on his chest. We were mercifully hidden from everyone else by a long wall. I blubbered openly, letting out all the frustration of having the true nature of my relationship with the SoHB unacknowledged. He patiently held me and spoke soothing words, finally saying the thing I’d needed to hear.
“It’s a betrayal, Kwirki,” he volunteered. “It is.”
“But he doesn’t see it that way!” I wailed. The pain, the helplessness, all the pent up frustration poured out of me. “That relationship is such a sham! It’s just a sham, Flirt, and it kills me!”
Time was lost on me. There was no telling how long we stood there like that when I noticed someone’s arms were wrapped around The Flirt from behind. I recognized them, and quickly wiped my eyes before the SoHB, obviously intoxicated at this point, revealed himself.
“Kwirki! You look so skinny!” he exclaimed once more.
Having worked myself up with The Flirt, I wrapped my arms around the SoHB’s neck and hugged him close to be sure he heard my spiteful words.
“Tell me, SoHB. Are you fulfilled now that you have someone to fuck?” I said into his ear. He muttered that he didn’t hear what I said, but seemed all too ready to get away.
“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” said The Flirt, having obviously heard my comment. “That’s not going to help.”
“I know. I know,” I babbled, already regretting my remark.
After a few more moments, Alley appeared and asked if I was okay. With uncharacteristic unselfconsciousness I looked straight at her with swollen eyes and tear-stained face and emitted a forlorn, “No.” Shortly thereafter, someone decided we should leave. I managed to make it out without seeing the SoHB and Michelle. Despite having ridden downtown with someone else, The Flirt climbed into my car for the ride back to Rachel’s house where his truck was parked. When we reached my street’s intersection I asked if he wanted to come home with me instead, which, of course, he did.
Before he left in the morning, we sat on the side of my bed in a solemn embrace.
“I still can’t believe you called me crazy, not so much in general, because I can’t blame you for being angry with me, but did you have to talk about me to them? Why them, Flirt? Why did you have to call me crazy to them?” He apologized again. “Just, please set it right, now, okay? Please.”
“I’ll try,” he said. Melancholy hung over him as he left. It hung over both of us, and it appeared we had surely spent our last night together. The tragedy of my broken heart was destined to leave nothing in my life untouched. All of my friendships, all security I possessed in anything, in any relationship, would not go unsoiled before I would truly be free. But now there was no one to point fingers at and blame but myself. I had started the confrontation with Michelle. I had let myself lose control of my senses again, and I was becoming afraid of never feeling in control again.
* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.
Isn’t there comfort in knowing the old cliché is correct? The truth shall set us free.
I have been silent for a few months now in more ways than one while in pursuit of truth. Silent here. Silent with the SoHB.
There was naturally a course of events which precipitated my last word and led to this silence. And other than the long history upon which I have already expounded, it began with my attempts to set right what I hadn’t made wrong. Desperately wanting everything to turn out the way I knew it could and should be I took upon myself the responsibilities of making amends which were actually his. After all, I had made terrible mistakes as well, and someone needed to be strong stomached enough to go first in swallowing their pride.
Seeing that I was the one who shot the last darts, I knew I had left him wounded, probably too wounded to risk approaching me. I wished to make myself approachable, to show I had softened, but I wanted this softening to be met with an obvious desire for reconciliation. My olive branch was well received, and even seemed appreciated, but I didn’t receive an offer of its return – the one ingredient necessary for laying a new foundation of mutual respect. I should have left mine at his door and walked away, but he answered with such warmth and friendliness, I couldn’t help but stand there waiting for the invitation inside. When it wasn’t forthcoming and no olive branch was offered in return, I felt exposed and vulnerable while being shamelessly patronized. My cup of frustration and resentment ranneth over. That was when I made my mistake.
Upon realizing that I had extended myself far beyond reason and my efforts would not be reciprocated, I was determined to keep my distance. Two weeks had passed without a word between us, but it wasn’t long enough for me to completely surrender wishing he would reach out to me in some small way. I told myself that I deserved to have my effort at reconciliation reciprocated. I deserved to be shown the appreciation he claimed having for it, but it was noticeably absent. I couldn’t abuse myself further. But on a fateful night, I broke my silence.
The band I loved so much was returning to town – the same band that had played the night I first saw her – and subsequently poured a drink down the SoHB’s shirt. I had managed to get a large group together for this show and enjoyed myself splendidly, until many rum & Cokes into the evening I panicked upon seeing most of the group leaving. Fear of being left behind spurred me to follow, even while knowing I was leaving Rachel* and her weekend guest behind. While walking to another neighborhood bar, who should we encounter but the SoHB and Michelle. The Flirt had talked on his cell with him before the show, and I had even offered my own greeting by proxy. The possibility he might come out was always in the back of my mind, but I didn’t think it likely. I solemnly walked along as my stomach turned at the thought of being around them.
At the bar, the group mingled briefly before splitting. I was standing in loose association with the SoHB and The Flirt, trying to be polite but not really paying attention, until The Flirt left to play pool with Alley*. Left alone with the SoHB, a scant moment passed before he exclaimed, “Kwirki! You look so skinny!”
With all the pent up indignance I felt regarding his lack of attention over the past several weeks, I exclaimed right back, “That’s because I AM skinny!” and traipsed off in a huff. My rum soaked brain thought I had thrown him a real zinger.
Rachel showed up incensed over having been left behind, and rightfully so since I was her transportation to the show. My apologies had not appeased her by the time she was ready to leave. Since I was her transportation, but not yet ready to leave myself, she declared that she would call a cab. I couldn’t allow it knowing she would feel resentment over being stranded once more. I decided to drive her the short distance home and return, a trip lasting no more than twenty minutes.
Without stopping to greet anyone upon returning, I immediately went to the restroom. After secluding myself in a stall, I heard Alley greeting someone with a familiar voice … someone wearing strappy heels and aqua colored Capri pants that I could see from below the partition. Alley went out and the two of us were the only ones left in the room. Flashes of fantasy conversations swept through my mind. So many times I had pictured us having a moment alone which might inspire questions or revelations about the true nature of my relationship with the SoHB.
“Michelle! Michelle, is that you?” I called out from my hiding place, knowing I was making a huge mistake, but unable to stop myself.
“Yeah. Who is that?” She asked.
“This is Kwirki. Hang on a moment, would you?” I hurried to right myself so I could make those imaginary talks become reality. “Hang on. I’ll be out in a second.”
She was standing by the sink when I emerged to face her. She watched me expectantly.
“Hey, Michelle. I just wanted to talk to you because I’ve known for some time that you don’t like me, and I was wondering why.”
She stared at me incredulously and then claimed she didn’t know what I was talking about.
“I know you don’t like me.” She continued shaking her head, acting oblivious, but I wasn’t having it. “I know it; I’ve been told, so there’s no use denying it.”
Yes, I had been told. It was during a delightful drive on a shopping trip when Rachel revealed it. The SoHB’s friend, Jeri*, had told Alley that Michelle didn’t like me. She didn’t like me at all, she’d said. Sweet Rachel was afraid the news might upset or anger me. Angry? I was delighted! It reinforced what I’d been telling people for months, but sensed that no one really believed me. The girl couldn’t stand me! I felt validated.
I watched as her expression shifted from false incredulousness to acceptance.
“Well, you’ve said things about me.”
I suspected as much. My pet name for her wasn’t meant to be flattering. For months it galled me to call her his “girlfriend.” In truth, it still did. And so, since the SoHB had neglected to ever mention her name and because of the more lascivious reasons he expressed in seeking a relationship, I felt justified in bitterly referring to her as “the SoHB’s whore.” It wasn’t meant as a personal insult, but of course I knew it would be taken that way if she ever caught wind of it. I didn’t care. Let her think ill of me; She meant nothing. Still, I wondered who had given me away.
“I’ve never said anything that was about you, Michelle. I don’t know you.”
“People have told me things you’ve said about me,” she added.
“I’ve said things that I know could be taken that way, but none of it was really about you. I don’t even know you. He’s the only one I’ve had a problem with,” I said, thinking I was being very reasonable.
“What did you say about me?” she asked.
I knew the score. She was baiting me.
“I’m not going into that, but it wasn’t really about you…”
“What did you say, Kwirki?” she pressed.
“I’m not going into that …” I said again, but she continued. “Never mind,” I chuckled, shaking my head and walking to the door. She wasn’t going to let the conversation be anything more than a Jr. High showdown, and I wasn’t interested. I realized that all my imagined conversations had included something she didn’t have … a willingness to hear, a desire to learn the answers to all those unasked questions and resolve those needling doubts she must have about the gaps and inconsistencies in the SoHB’s version of the story.
She called after me as I grabbed the door handle with a comment that must have made me think it worth one last effort, for I turned and walked back to her.
“Look. I know I’ve said some things that could be construed to be about you, but nothing I’ve said was ever really about you. I don’t have a problem with you; I don’t know you. My issues have been solely with him and how he began this relationship.”
Next thing I know, she tells me that she’s heard I’m crazy … how everyone says so and not just the SoHB. I pressed to know who, and she answered that it had come from The Flirt for one. Her blow hit its intended target. She had unearthed one of my fears … that my acts of rage and desperation had turned me into a revolting creature, even to my friends. I was shocked and dismayed to learn that The Flirt had spoken openly and malevolently about the offense I committed against him. She was only too pleased to point out that doing things like pouring a drink on someone and my offense against The Flirt were proof of my craziness. I held onto my dignity by a thread.
With a remark about how she and the SoHB had been together a year, she spared me from further revealing how deeply her words affected me by providing the opening for which I'd hoped.
“A year? Did you say it has been a year?” I asked incredulously. She replied that it had. “Has it really been a year? Because you wouldn’t know it by the way he was treating me a year ago.”
She wasn’t buying. “Why should I believe you, Kwirki? . . . the person everyone says is crazy. The SoHB told me that he made it clear to you that you didn’t have a relationship.”
I snorted. “Well, I don’t know how clear it’s supposed to be when he was cuddled up in my bed after starting to see someone else.” I wanted to go on. I wanted to laugh at her for taking his words at face value. She should know him well enough by now to realize that his chronic indecisiveness won’t allow him to make anything clear. But I didn’t get the chance.
“Why do you care, Kwirki?” she interrupted. “It’s been a year. Why do you still care?”
I blankly stared at her for a split second. It was the same question I continually asked myself and could never find a satisfactory answer. Thankfully, I was saved by The Flirt coming in the door to break us up. The humor of him coming into the women’s restroom barely registered as he ushered us out. My mind was still consumed with Michelle’s revelation.
“Wait, Flirt!” I said following him. “Wait, I need to ask you something.”
I caught up with him and began the interrogation.
“Michelle said you told her I was crazy. Why would you tell her that? Her, of all people. Why?” I instantly broke into tears.
It happened back when he was angry over what I’d done to him. It was just talk, he explained; just shooting off steam. I clung to him as I cried, my mascara leaving lash marks on his chest. We were mercifully hidden from everyone else by a long wall. I blubbered openly, letting out all the frustration of having the true nature of my relationship with the SoHB unacknowledged. He patiently held me and spoke soothing words, finally saying the thing I’d needed to hear.
“It’s a betrayal, Kwirki,” he volunteered. “It is.”
“But he doesn’t see it that way!” I wailed. The pain, the helplessness, all the pent up frustration poured out of me. “That relationship is such a sham! It’s just a sham, Flirt, and it kills me!”
Time was lost on me. There was no telling how long we stood there like that when I noticed someone’s arms were wrapped around The Flirt from behind. I recognized them, and quickly wiped my eyes before the SoHB, obviously intoxicated at this point, revealed himself.
“Kwirki! You look so skinny!” he exclaimed once more.
Having worked myself up with The Flirt, I wrapped my arms around the SoHB’s neck and hugged him close to be sure he heard my spiteful words.
“Tell me, SoHB. Are you fulfilled now that you have someone to fuck?” I said into his ear. He muttered that he didn’t hear what I said, but seemed all too ready to get away.
“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” said The Flirt, having obviously heard my comment. “That’s not going to help.”
“I know. I know,” I babbled, already regretting my remark.
After a few more moments, Alley appeared and asked if I was okay. With uncharacteristic unselfconsciousness I looked straight at her with swollen eyes and tear-stained face and emitted a forlorn, “No.” Shortly thereafter, someone decided we should leave. I managed to make it out without seeing the SoHB and Michelle. Despite having ridden downtown with someone else, The Flirt climbed into my car for the ride back to Rachel’s house where his truck was parked. When we reached my street’s intersection I asked if he wanted to come home with me instead, which, of course, he did.
Before he left in the morning, we sat on the side of my bed in a solemn embrace.
“I still can’t believe you called me crazy, not so much in general, because I can’t blame you for being angry with me, but did you have to talk about me to them? Why them, Flirt? Why did you have to call me crazy to them?” He apologized again. “Just, please set it right, now, okay? Please.”
“I’ll try,” he said. Melancholy hung over him as he left. It hung over both of us, and it appeared we had surely spent our last night together. The tragedy of my broken heart was destined to leave nothing in my life untouched. All of my friendships, all security I possessed in anything, in any relationship, would not go unsoiled before I would truly be free. But now there was no one to point fingers at and blame but myself. I had started the confrontation with Michelle. I had let myself lose control of my senses again, and I was becoming afraid of never feeling in control again.
* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.
Jul 4, 2005
Broken Chains
Don’t wish to feel anymore.
How many chances can we give a person before giving up? How many ways do we make them show us they don’t care?
How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll® center of a Tootsie Pop®?
One, two-oo, three … Th-ree!!
How long will it take me to forget?
I’ve said so often how I wish I understood; how I wish he understood. I’ve said how I wish things could be different; how they should be different. I thought misunderstandings could always be cleared; All it takes is talking and listening. Simple enough. So, if I can talk and I can listen, and he is capable of talking and listening, we may not agree on everything, but we can reach an understanding. Right?
But the heart is a silly thing, and the ego even sillier. What if listening makes us hear what we don’t wish to know … what we refuse to believe? What is the solution then?
What if your listener only hears the inner repetition of his own self-justification and denial?
What do you do when you don’t feel heard? … when you don’t even feel regarded as a real human being with valid and tender emotions? What happens to us when we feel all identity has been stripped away?
There was a puppy once … one of thousands like her. A family thought she was cute and cuddly, so they took her home. They played with her and watched as she clumsily bounced around the way puppies do. She soon became too big for a box, so they took her outside and chained her to a tree. They paid her some attention at first, but not as much as before. She wasn’t the little fuzzball she used to be. They brought her food and water, but didn’t have the time or energy to give her any attention. There was too much else to do … to many other priorities. Meanwhile, she grew. The family took a little vacation, and while they were gone, someone reported their dog to the S.P.C.A. The chain with which they’d secured her had become embedded in her neck. Brought before the court for animal cruelty, the family acted shocked and dismayed. They had been out of town, they told the judge. She was fine when they left. A neighbor was supposed to look after her while they were gone. The judge wouldn’t hear it. An injury of that sort didn’t occur in a week. It takes weeks for a chain to cut into a dog’s neck, create a gaping wound, and then become embedded. In all that time they had never noticed. They cried and denied they’d done anything wrong. They couldn’t … wouldn’t see what was apparent to anyone. They had abused the animal through neglect.
Do you think they ever saw it that way? Do you think they went home that day believing they were wronged by the courts? Do you think they spent years telling the story of how they were wronged?
I don’t have any answers, only my own suspicions. What does your knowledge of human nature tell you?
But I did a little research on what may become of the chained dog.
Chains don’t need to be made of metal; We don’t need tethers to feel constrained. All it takes is the feeling that we simply don’t matter to the people we love. All it takes is being treated as though we are insignificant.
I believe I have given up. After a year of fighting to think well of him. After a year of defiantly believing that the person I once knew wasn’t a complete lie … that he wasn’t completely gone. After reminiscing and wondering if there was something to recover. After holding onto a bond I believed was stronger than our differences. We had hurt each other. I knew I overreacted a few times. Time and space allowed me a better perception of the effects of my reactions. I didn’t want it to end so badly. There was no need for it to end so badly.
In his memory, will I ever be the same girl I was a year ago?
Will he ever regret?
But I’ve learned that I can’t do anything to make it better. I can’t be gentle enough. I can’t be understanding enough. I can’t be giving enough. I cannot sacrifice enough … even if I sacrificed all. I’m no longer a person to him. I’m no longer real.
I don’t know how that happened. How does one become nothing to someone with whom they shared everything so shortly before? You would think I’d asked him to turn his world upside-down. All I wanted was to make amends. I even volunteered to make the most compromises. But turning yourself inside-out doesn’t make you a real person. It only makes you hideous.
So, I no longer feel sorry for his ignorance. I no longer feel bitter or angry at having been “thrown away.” I’m no longer afraid of completely losing someone I cared for. I don’t feel much of anything. I simply think of him as a man who made a choice … the choice to deny the value of his friends. The repercussions of such foolishness are his and his alone.
And this feeling of numbness … I think they call it “calm.” I had forgotten what it was like.
¹Bless the Bullys: Pit Bull and Amstaff Haven, “Break the Chains!” FAQ page. Information courtesy of the Humane Society of the United States. <http://bless-the-bullys.tripod.com/id37.html>
How many chances can we give a person before giving up? How many ways do we make them show us they don’t care?
How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll® center of a Tootsie Pop®?
One, two-oo, three … Th-ree!!
How long will it take me to forget?
I’ve said so often how I wish I understood; how I wish he understood. I’ve said how I wish things could be different; how they should be different. I thought misunderstandings could always be cleared; All it takes is talking and listening. Simple enough. So, if I can talk and I can listen, and he is capable of talking and listening, we may not agree on everything, but we can reach an understanding. Right?
But the heart is a silly thing, and the ego even sillier. What if listening makes us hear what we don’t wish to know … what we refuse to believe? What is the solution then?
What if your listener only hears the inner repetition of his own self-justification and denial?
What do you do when you don’t feel heard? … when you don’t even feel regarded as a real human being with valid and tender emotions? What happens to us when we feel all identity has been stripped away?
There was a puppy once … one of thousands like her. A family thought she was cute and cuddly, so they took her home. They played with her and watched as she clumsily bounced around the way puppies do. She soon became too big for a box, so they took her outside and chained her to a tree. They paid her some attention at first, but not as much as before. She wasn’t the little fuzzball she used to be. They brought her food and water, but didn’t have the time or energy to give her any attention. There was too much else to do … to many other priorities. Meanwhile, she grew. The family took a little vacation, and while they were gone, someone reported their dog to the S.P.C.A. The chain with which they’d secured her had become embedded in her neck. Brought before the court for animal cruelty, the family acted shocked and dismayed. They had been out of town, they told the judge. She was fine when they left. A neighbor was supposed to look after her while they were gone. The judge wouldn’t hear it. An injury of that sort didn’t occur in a week. It takes weeks for a chain to cut into a dog’s neck, create a gaping wound, and then become embedded. In all that time they had never noticed. They cried and denied they’d done anything wrong. They couldn’t … wouldn’t see what was apparent to anyone. They had abused the animal through neglect.
Do you think they ever saw it that way? Do you think they went home that day believing they were wronged by the courts? Do you think they spent years telling the story of how they were wronged?
I don’t have any answers, only my own suspicions. What does your knowledge of human nature tell you?
But I did a little research on what may become of the chained dog.
“An otherwise friendly and docile dog, when kept continuously chained, becomes neurotic, unhappy, anxious, and often aggressive"¹And so I did.
Chains don’t need to be made of metal; We don’t need tethers to feel constrained. All it takes is the feeling that we simply don’t matter to the people we love. All it takes is being treated as though we are insignificant.
I believe I have given up. After a year of fighting to think well of him. After a year of defiantly believing that the person I once knew wasn’t a complete lie … that he wasn’t completely gone. After reminiscing and wondering if there was something to recover. After holding onto a bond I believed was stronger than our differences. We had hurt each other. I knew I overreacted a few times. Time and space allowed me a better perception of the effects of my reactions. I didn’t want it to end so badly. There was no need for it to end so badly.
In his memory, will I ever be the same girl I was a year ago?
Will he ever regret?
But I’ve learned that I can’t do anything to make it better. I can’t be gentle enough. I can’t be understanding enough. I can’t be giving enough. I cannot sacrifice enough … even if I sacrificed all. I’m no longer a person to him. I’m no longer real.
I don’t know how that happened. How does one become nothing to someone with whom they shared everything so shortly before? You would think I’d asked him to turn his world upside-down. All I wanted was to make amends. I even volunteered to make the most compromises. But turning yourself inside-out doesn’t make you a real person. It only makes you hideous.
So, I no longer feel sorry for his ignorance. I no longer feel bitter or angry at having been “thrown away.” I’m no longer afraid of completely losing someone I cared for. I don’t feel much of anything. I simply think of him as a man who made a choice … the choice to deny the value of his friends. The repercussions of such foolishness are his and his alone.
And this feeling of numbness … I think they call it “calm.” I had forgotten what it was like.
¹Bless the Bullys: Pit Bull and Amstaff Haven, “Break the Chains!” FAQ page. Information courtesy of the Humane Society of the United States. <http://bless-the-bullys.tripod.com/id37.html>
May 2, 2005
New Beginnings
I grudgingly walked the sidewalk approaching the architect’s office. It was the finale of my freedom – the first day on a new job, which couldn’t have come at a better time. My mostly unused vacation/sick pay from the last job had kept me going briefly, along with an insurance claim for superficial hurricane damage and a little money saved up. After this year’s tax refund, I couldn’t foresee anything else fortuitously falling into my lap. The timing was perfect. I couldn’t help but feel some sadness over losing my carefree days at home, though – days of sunning on the deck, two hour lunches with the folks, and sleeping in ‘til 10. It was a six month sabbatical from stress and responsibility, but one must survive – and surviving means work.
My foot hit the top step of the office when I heard a rooster crow. It stopped me dead in my tracks. Was that real? Why would a rooster be here in the business district of downtown Mobile? It crowed again, apparently coming from the yard next door. I shook my head in disbelief. It’s just this sort of thing that often makes me feel as though I’m living a movie script rather than real life.
I had expected to be first, but The Boss was already there. He explained that the lawyer’s office next door had chickens, but he didn’t know why. We had a two-hour meeting where he talked in circles about job duties, requiring my intense concentration to decipher the simplest of instructions. This habit of his was the only part of the job that worried me. I looked forward to the day when I would feel comfortable enough to say, “Keep it simple, stupid.” Well … not in those words, of course.
The morning passed fairly quickly. I looked forward to a trip home for lunch – a brief return to my taste of freedom. Instead, I found my car battery dead from leaving the lights on. I deflated. No one was left at the office except me. I fortunately had an uneaten Whataburger Breakfast Taquito that would serve as a lunch meal, but without my noontime escape, everything seemed ruined. I wanted to cry.
While stuck at the office, I called the folks to report on my day. Dad offered to jump off my battery; He was coming downtown that afternoon anyway. After talking with him, I decided to check my home e-mail account. There was a message from Ally and one from my Sis, but nothing from the person I hoped to hear from.
A month after socializing with the SoHB and his girlfriend on Patch’s* birthday, I e-mailed him again. Nothing significant had changed. They were still together, and I hadn’t encountered either of them again. I still smarted from his abandonment of last summer, too. However, an article on forgiving the unrepentant moved me. I always knew I would eventually forgive the SoHB, for our bond was genuine and our mutual affection had to be bigger than his betrayal. But my desire to forgive was constantly thwarted by his denials and justifications. Looking to the doctrine from my own Christian upbringing, I reasoned that if we must repent to receive God’s forgiveness and be secured into eternal life, then how could I expect myself to forgive the unrepentant SoHB? But while reading that article, an illustration of God’s forgiveness leapt from the page and hit me in my core:
* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.
My foot hit the top step of the office when I heard a rooster crow. It stopped me dead in my tracks. Was that real? Why would a rooster be here in the business district of downtown Mobile? It crowed again, apparently coming from the yard next door. I shook my head in disbelief. It’s just this sort of thing that often makes me feel as though I’m living a movie script rather than real life.
I had expected to be first, but The Boss was already there. He explained that the lawyer’s office next door had chickens, but he didn’t know why. We had a two-hour meeting where he talked in circles about job duties, requiring my intense concentration to decipher the simplest of instructions. This habit of his was the only part of the job that worried me. I looked forward to the day when I would feel comfortable enough to say, “Keep it simple, stupid.” Well … not in those words, of course.
The morning passed fairly quickly. I looked forward to a trip home for lunch – a brief return to my taste of freedom. Instead, I found my car battery dead from leaving the lights on. I deflated. No one was left at the office except me. I fortunately had an uneaten Whataburger Breakfast Taquito that would serve as a lunch meal, but without my noontime escape, everything seemed ruined. I wanted to cry.
While stuck at the office, I called the folks to report on my day. Dad offered to jump off my battery; He was coming downtown that afternoon anyway. After talking with him, I decided to check my home e-mail account. There was a message from Ally and one from my Sis, but nothing from the person I hoped to hear from.
A month after socializing with the SoHB and his girlfriend on Patch’s* birthday, I e-mailed him again. Nothing significant had changed. They were still together, and I hadn’t encountered either of them again. I still smarted from his abandonment of last summer, too. However, an article on forgiving the unrepentant moved me. I always knew I would eventually forgive the SoHB, for our bond was genuine and our mutual affection had to be bigger than his betrayal. But my desire to forgive was constantly thwarted by his denials and justifications. Looking to the doctrine from my own Christian upbringing, I reasoned that if we must repent to receive God’s forgiveness and be secured into eternal life, then how could I expect myself to forgive the unrepentant SoHB? But while reading that article, an illustration of God’s forgiveness leapt from the page and hit me in my core:
“When (Jesus) showed up after his resurrection behind (the disciples’) closed doors, he did not say to them, "How could you do this to me?" He merely said, "Peace be with you! As the Father has sent me, I am sending you" (John 20:21).”
They had abandoned Him in a much more tragic and hurtful way than the SoHB abandoned me, and yet He pointed no fingers nor demanded any remorse. I realized I had abused the doctrine of my faith. Forgiveness was given through the sacrifice of Christ. It’s done. The pure innocence of his blood must cover everyone’s failings or it would cover no one’s. The trick is that a person cannot reap the benefit of that forgiveness until they repent. I related this revelation to the situation with the SoHB and found that it held true. Even if I forgave him, a barrier would remain until he acknowledged his need for forgiveness. A renewed friendship with him would never reach its fullest potential unless he did. Knowing this … knowing that forgiving him would empower me as a positive force in our lives … gave me the strength to begin moving in that direction.
We shared several conversational e-mails concerning no topic of note. I might not have tried except that on every occasion when I sent a friendly, non-relationship related message, he faithfully and pleasantly replied – quite amazing considering how many former interactions ended with my hostility. I felt encouraged by his attitude in the e-mails, but discouraged by what I perceived as disinterest in sustaining a conversation or generating one himself. I eventually wanted to clarify his approach to our correspondence, asking him to tell me his ideal scenario for us at that point. Would we be friends? Or would he prefer to leave everything in the past, including me? His answer was uninspiring. While saying that it would be good to be friends, he qualified it by saying that he didn’t like having bad blood with anyone. He then asked for my ideal in return. I found his answer to be safe, keeping with his usual custom. I agreed to tell him my ideal, but not until he stopped playing word games and presented a less passive answer. It was no better than what a stranger might say, and told me nothing of what he wanted. He responded defensively and said that he guessed his answer was an indication of how neutral he felt about my question. He wanted things to be civil between us, as they had been for a while, and he would like it if our old group could get together sometime without tension or awkwardness between us. But, there was an important person in his life now, and she and I didn’t mix well. He wanted all the unpleasantness to go away and everyone to be happy. What he wanted from me was for me to find happiness and seize onto it.
I rankled at his patronizing signoff, and experienced the usual hurt and anger that he should feel nothing towards me when we had been so important to each other. It took a day for me to calm down enough to form a civil response. I started by offering my interpretation of his words – that he never thinks about it anymore and doesn’t care what happens, except that things remain pleasant since we have the same circle of friends. That he doesn’t care to restore our comradery or mutual respect based on their merit alone, and that there is no aspect of our former friendship that holds enough value for him to dream of regaining it. I expressed dismay and pity for him if that was truly the limit of his imagination and old investment in our friendship. I then told him that my ideal was to reestablish comradery through regular e-mails and chats, perhaps an occasional phone call. Eventually, I might be able to enjoy his company one-on-one over coffee or lunch. However, I didn’t feel comfortable enough to phone him or invite him to social occasions. I also didn’t wish to be his drinking buddy again, ever. I told him that I had no problem being around him or her at the invitation of our friends. I couldn’t resist getting in a little dig, though, by saying that I thought Patch’s birthday went very well and asking why we didn’t mix well. I knew he wasn’t referring to only me.
Looking over my reply a day later, I knew he wouldn’t respond. The tone was too confrontational, even if it was veiled. I’d been reading books on communication … books like How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie and Mars and Venus on a Date by Dr. John Gray – not to mention all the episodes of Nanny 911 I’ve watched. Basically, I learned that to get anyone to do what you want, you don’t push. No one wants to feel pushed into anything. Make them think it’s their idea, and make them believe they can’t fail. That’s the secret. Reading those books also revealed how much I contributed to my own downfall. I had pushed him away, first by removing myself to avoid being hurt, and then by attacking him on every turn with allegations of coldness and betrayal. Why would he want someone like that back in his life? Not when I’m behaving that way … not when I make myself so untouchable. After several days I wrote again asking if I might know why he never responded – asking if it was a matter of being uninspired or offended. He answered with an apology and the excuse that he had been thinking about my e-mail when work deadlines pressed upon him. (We correspond through his work account.) Introspection took him a long time, he said, but he was open to discussing another casual topic I’d brought up.
That occurred the week before my first day at work. I told him of my job offer, and later that I’d decided to accept it. I never brought up the “ideals” e-mail again, nor did he. Now, my first day on the job, I hoped he would think of me and ask about my day. I chastised myself that I knew better than to expect anything from him. It’s done. Over. Everything between us – friendship, fond feelings, mutual interest – it’s all gone for him. There is nothing for him to work or hope for, and therefore, nothing for me. How could I have been so foolish as to think I might mean anything to him after all this time?
The afternoon stretched out before me. I had expected the stresses of a first day to onset a headache, but everything flowed pretty easily. Still, my sunken mood never lifted. First my dead battery and then the disappointment of knowing there were no well-wishes from the SoHB cast a shadow over everything. I wanted to get home where I could cry freely.
Walking through my front door, Gert met me with all the enthusiasm a little schnauzer can display. She’d become so accustomed to having me constantly home, the day must have been a little traumatic for her. Talk about feelings of abandonment, poor thing! I managed to let her outside before she scratched up my legs and went about the regular homecoming routine, all the while working to convince myself there was no reason for eagerly checking the e-mail. There would be nothing from him, so I’d better not hope for it.
But there it was, the first item in my mailbox,
“So have you started the new job? How's that going?”
I stared in relieved disbelief. He remembered it was my first day. He went on to detail a little about the trials of his day. He had reached out to me, finally, by generating a message. All of my anxiety melted. This might work after all. Maybe we can be friends.
* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.
Mar 31, 2005
Mind Games: The Showdown
It was Patch’s birthday, and I don’t like overlooking my friends’ birthdays. Most of us don’t exchange gifts, but we always celebrate. I hadn’t heard from anyone yet, so I called Patch to ask if there were any plans for the evening. He seemed awkward on the phone, ambiguously stating there had been some talk of going out – maybe to Picklefish later that night. It was nearly 7 o’clock, and he was just leaving work. Although I wondered, I didn’t ask whether the SoHB and his girlfriend were going. I knew the SoHB would. He probably generated the talk of going out. If it were only him, I could handle it, no problem. I had proven that at the Chili Cook-off. I wasn’t so sure about seeing him and her together – watching them touch or gaze lovingly at each other. Could I handle that?
I told Patch to call when there were definite plans. Then, I sat around the house … waiting. Pathetic, isn’t it? When it turned 9 o’clock, I felt certain I had been snubbed. I didn’t want to appear desperate by calling again, but decided I would, claiming that I needed to know the plans, if there were any, because I hadn’t eaten yet. Another hour passed. I was talking with my sister, telling her how disappointed I was, when my cell phone rang. It was Patch; They were going to Faubacher’s. I groaned – not my favorite place. He said that everyone had met up and couldn’t decide whether to eat, so when that place closed and kicked them out, they decided to really start the night at Faubacher’s. (I didn’t point out that closing down one place meant the night had already started.) I don’t recall whether I asked or if he simply volunteered the names of who was there.
“Big Red, The Flirt, Wide-Eyed, the SoHB and his girlfriend, Michelle.”
“Oh? Is that the SoHB’s little whore’s name? Michelle?” I asked for spite.
“Uh … That’s something you’ll have to answer within yourself,” he hesitatingly replied.
I told him I wasn’t sure about coming out since I still hadn’t eaten anything and probably should before drinking. I said that I would call if I wouldn't be joining them.
After talking with him, I had to make a decision. I felt genuinely torn for several minutes. Did I want to remain safely guarded from their relationship, or did I want to expose myself and, hopefully, my strength to them?
I remembered my dad’s voice saying, “The SoHB isn’t grinding you into the ground. This is Kwirki grinding you into the ground.”
I heard The Flirt’s voice saying, “I just remember that the point things got better for me (after a breakup with his fiancée years earlier) was when I got mad – when I said, ‘F---- it. You don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine.’”
I still clearly felt the sting of being disregarded for a phone call when all of them met. That was how I started getting mad. But it wasn’t the kind of anger I had pictured from that conversation with The Flirt, for I had spent months being angry at the SoHB – enraged even to the point of cutting off contact. No, this anger was a kind of indignance that he should affect my life – indignance that friends would consider leaving me out because of him. Once that crossed my mind, there was no backing out of it.
I freshened my make-up, wanting to look fantastic, but not as though I tried too hard. No eyeshadow or heavy eyeliner. I wore my hair loose, as usual. My attire was a favorite pair of hip-hugger “skinny” jeans and a lightweight, beige sweater which wasn’t too snug, low-cut, or revealed my belly. My black boots with the chunky high heels and a striped cardigan finished off the ensemble. I was satisfied that my mirrored image revealed a casual, confident and sexy woman. I was ready for battle.
I left around 10:40pm with some reservations yet. What was I setting myself up for? It could go horribly wrong. Was it worth the risk for a friend’s birthday, especially one who nearly left me out? Erring on the side of caution would mean staying home. My foot trembled on the gas peddle, but I didn’t stop. I had to know what would happen, and I had to assert myself back into my rightful place with my friends.
A large group was leaving Faubacher’s as I drove into the parking lot. Seeing The Flirt’s baseball cap over the top of their heads confirmed that it was my group. The girl who walked briskly in front was unfamiliar to me, but with a slightly closer look, I knew it was her. I always felt that if we accidentally met somewhere she would recognize me first, for on that single, previous occasion, there was nothing memorable about her. I was pleased to have my first impression verified. She was as plain as I remembered. Our eyes locked briefly as I lowered my window to ask someone what was happening. If looks could kill, I would not be telling this story.
Patch informed me that the group was driven out by karaoke night. They were relocating to the considerably more sedate Bubble Lounge down the street. I arrived first since I never left my car. I warily watched for The SoHB and girlfriend as I waited outside, hoping the others would arrive first so I wouldn’t have to socialize with the happy couple. Fortunately, Big Red and Wide-Eyed came next; then The Flirt and Patch.
After the rest of us went inside, staked out a corner, and a couple went to the bar for drinks, I began wondering if they had forfeited the night. I could just imagine the conversation they must be having. I wondered if she was upset. I could imagine him gently urging her to continue the night, reasoning that I would naturally want to be there for Patch’s birthday. Surely she could put up with me for Patch’s birthday. They entered several minutes later. I was then able to get a better look at her. She was a busty girl in a low-cut, v-neck sweater and blue jeans, with shoulder length hair dyed overly dark. Just as I noted how much shorter I thought she would be, The Flirt teased her about her height (an obvious running gag), to which she cried, “And I’m wearing three-inch heels!”
Ah. That explained it.
I excused myself to go to the bar. My resolution was to drink no more than two beers. I wanted to make an appearance, get under someone’s skin a little, and get out. I needed to remain in control. On an empty stomach, I knew I couldn’t handle much alcohol.
While everyone settled into the cozy seating area (those two at the diagonal corner from me), the group talked idly about the new troubles at my old company. Everyone except his girlfriend worked or formerly worked there. In the midst of the gripe session, Patch stated, “You know that place is bad. Just look at Kwirki. She’s only been away from there a few months, and she already looks 10 years younger.”
I could have kissed him.
At that statement, the SoHB finally made introductions. He started with Wide-Eyed, whom she had apparently never met, and then moved to me.
“It’s great to put a name with the face, Michelle. Good to meet you,” I said as sweetly as I could. Everyone went silent. She politely greeted me in return, but her jaw was set firm. She wasn’t at all happy to meet me. This night could be fun.
I felt disinclined to engage either the SoHB or her in conversation, but I could tolerate her better than him. She, after all, hadn’t done anything to me. While hoping to remain civil, I gave myself full permission to dislike them both. I spoke with Patch on one side of me and Wide-Eyed on the other to avoid talking to them. I asked Big Red a little about his poker conquests, since he’d insisted on buying my first drink. All the while I observed this “girlfriend,” developing an impression – wondering what he could see in her to make him sacrifice me – knowing that she was bound to wonder about me, as well.
They didn’t sit touching, as I had expected. I remembered he always rested his foot or knee against mine when we dated, always wanting to touch – to be connected to me in some way. He involved himself in conversation with Big Red on his left while she chatted vivaciously with The Flirt on her right. I was dismayed and a little overwhelmed to notice how outgoing and bubbly she was. My only impression of her had come from the night I poured a drink on the SoHB. From a distance she had seemed very reserved. I expected her to be shy, even mousy. Here she was, effervescently filling our little corner with a lilting, teasing voice, perfectly at ease in the setting. She displayed the persona I believed to be my advantage. I expected my own vivaciousness to overwhelm her, but she trumped me. She even began to appear cute. She playfully slapped The Flirt’s knee when he teased her, enthralling him when he was supposed to be my secret weapon. She obviously wanted to be the center of attention.
During the course of conversation, she made a few insignificant remarks which were clearly intended to call attention to her and the SoHB’s status as a couple. She threw out a ‘we’ here and there; patted his knee maybe once. Eventually, I overheard part of a story she was telling The Flirt which sounded vaguely familiar. Then, I thought I heard her mention a familiar name.
“Who is this?” I suddenly interjected into the conversation.
“Oh, it’s this friend of ours named Harry*, who blah-blah-dee-blah-blah…”
“Yeah, I know Harry,” I stated, but she was too busy talking over me to hear. I laughed under my breath. She felt so threatened she had to assert their coupleness in even the mention of a friend's name. She needed to feel connected to a part of the SoHB’s life untouched by me. As I have played mental games with myself in attempt to devalue her role in his life, she has done the same with me. I remembered how he said my name often came up back when they had been together a couple of months. I remembered thinking how she must dislike that, but tolerates it in hope that it will pass. He had done the same when we dated – mentioning the ex-girlfriend more frequently than was comfortable and avoiding certain places in order to avoid her. The real tip off was avoiding certain places to avoid the memory of her. I remembered how he claimed to be over her, but I knew differently. It was a refreshing, empowering perspective.
The night wore on, and I took my turn teasing The Flirt and Patch. When those two entered a debate over the social consciousness of smoking, I distracted myself by talking sports with Wide-Eyed. But when Michelle, a smoker like The Flirt and the SoHB, entered the debate, I became interested. While she was thoroughly distracted by the discussion, I caught the SoHB’s eye and threw him the most withering “go to hell” look I could manage. He looked away. I just wanted him to know that despite my pleasantness this night, I was no more okay with their relationship than ever. My attention returned to the debate.
“Do you eat meat, Patch?” Michelle was asking for, maybe, the third time. “Do you drive a car?”
It was two against one. Patch was clearly frustrated, so I took up his defense.
“He’s saying that by smoking, you not only risk your own health, but anyone around you who wasn’t given the choice.”
“But everyone does something that puts their health at risk. You put your health at risk if you eat meat … if you drink alcohol,” she said.
I decided to get a little mean. “The SoHB is going to die of liver disease. He could die of lung cancer, actually. But if he dies of liver disease, it is because he chose to risk his own body by overindulging. Unless he drives drunk, he isn’t endangering anyone else,” I said goading for a reaction, but neither became defensive or batted an eye. I didn’t expect the SoHB would, but she didn’t dismiss me or jump to his defense. That made me think two things: 1) She’s noticed his alcohol abuse. 2) He’s told her how bluntly I’ve spoken with him about it. Maybe both aren’t true, but one must be.
“What about driving a car?” she asked. “The pollution from driving a car is harmful to everyone. That pollutes the air more than smoking does.”
“There is a worthwhile benefit to driving a car,” I argued. “It transports us from place to place, helping us function in daily living. Smoking is the only vice which carries no natural benefit. Eating meat or drinking alcohol can, if practiced in moderation, be beneficial to the body. They aren’t necessarily bad things.”
“What about scotch?” she asked. “Scotch doesn’t benefit the body,” she laughed.
“Well, I don’t know about scotch. I don’t drink scotch,” I chuckled; I was done. She had resorted to being silly. There is no reward in persuing an argument once someone stoops to that level.
In a moment, she returned to debating Patch, giving more of the same tired arguments. As she leaned forward to engage him, her bosom threatened to overflow her neckline. I suppressed an urge to call her attention to it. Her formerly daunting perkiness had also become irksomely overdone. A person can only take so much of that before it wears on one. That combined with her lack of any challenging arguments left me extremely unimpressed. I often looked at the SoHB hoping to catch his eye. I wanted to signal towards her and mouth at him, “Are you kidding me?” but he wouldn’t look my way.
I returned to giving Wide-Eyed a little attention. He truly was the odd man out, being a little shy … the newest and youngest of our group. I kept my eye on Michelle and the debate between Patch and The Flirt, although I no longer listened. I noticed that she dropped back from the conversation and sat solemnly. She still leaned over her crossed legs, but her eyes were downcast. I noted her body language – left leg over right, away from the SoHB – left elbow crossed over her knee with a cigarette dangling from the hand, pulling her upper body away from him as well. He was turned in conversation toward Big Red. Upon noticing her downcast appearance, he reached out to rub her lower back. I remembered him doing that to me, but seeing it wasn’t distressing. It was a shallow offer of comfort. She tilted her head slightly at that gesture, but didn’t turn. He didn’t even pause his conversation with Big Red. Her countenance remained downcast. I realized for the first time that her perkiness had been an act – a show for my benefit. She had hoped to disguise her insecurity with him. It became irksome because she was trying too hard. I looked momentarily away and caught the eye of a guy at the bar – the same one who smiled at me when I bought my last drink – and I smiled broadly in return. Yeah … I didn’t need the SoHB’s attention.
When I turned back to the group, I noticed Michelle touching the SoHB’s arm to get his attention, and read her lips as she asked, “Are you okay?” I presumed the situation of being around me had prompted her question, for he appeared perfectly fine and to still be enjoying conversation with Big Red. It amused me. Did she not want him to be okay? For if he wasn’t, even if it was because of me, it would mean that he needed her, wouldn’t it? And there was probably nothing she needed more in that moment than for him to need her. That must have been why it satisfied me to see him nod and turn back to Big Red. Watching her insecurity with him reveal itself gave me a thrill.
The Flirt left us, and I became a little concerned about the group whittling away, leaving me in an awkward situation. I had exceeded my two beer limit by one, and considered having another. However, The SoHB is always the last man standing, and I couldn’t allow myself to be stuck alone with him and Michelle while I nursed a final beer.
Big Red complained about the music, so the SoHB handed Michelle a bill to use at the jukebox. I observed her shape while her back was turned. She was small waisted, contradictory to how her bustline made her look. She had no butt whatsoever. After a minute, the SoHB joined her at the jukebox. I knew this was their chance to talk in semi-privacy – his chance to give the attention he had denied her earlier. Their arms entwined around each other’s waists. I remember thinking that she could have his affection, for his affection was cheap.
After the SoHB bought Patch another beer, he chose to sit in The Flirt’s old seat – next to Patch and directly across from me. There was a brief conversation about various bands and the upcoming Jazzfest in New Orleans. He showed clear intoxication, making his telltale face of one squinted eye while the other glares widely at you – an exaggerated expression meant to be humorous. I knew I would soon leave. He would be no good the rest of the night, and she could have him. It was always during these moments when I was vulnerable to him – when he could be his most open and loving, only to forget it in the morning. He and Michelle sat facing each other – him lightly holding her hand. I didn’t want to appear upset by their tête-à -tête, so I waited until they no longer touched before announcing my departure. Big Red protested which caught the SoHB’s attention. His sotted senses had been too absorbed to hear the reason, so Big Red explained that I was leaving.
“What!?? … No!!” exclaimed the SoHB, but quickly piped down; Don’t know why.
I said my last goodbye to Patch, wishing him one more happy birthday. I had to walk past the supposedly happy couple on my way out, so I made a point of stopping to tell Michelle goodbye and say it was nice meeting her. She did not look at me – merely tilted her head upward with closed eyes – as she returned the courtesy in her most gracious voice. I didn’t say anything to the SoHB, and walked out without looking back. I drove home elated. It was one in the morning, but I called my sister just to tell the story.
I have not had the pleasure of their company since that day, although I do look forward to seeing them again … that is, if she puts up with his neglect long enough. There was one subsequent opportunity; I showed up, but they didn’t. I’ve wondered if she thought I was gearing up to steal him from her. Such effort would be a waste of time, but, as I said at the beginning of that evening, I refuse to let him hinder my life anymore.
* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like
I told Patch to call when there were definite plans. Then, I sat around the house … waiting. Pathetic, isn’t it? When it turned 9 o’clock, I felt certain I had been snubbed. I didn’t want to appear desperate by calling again, but decided I would, claiming that I needed to know the plans, if there were any, because I hadn’t eaten yet. Another hour passed. I was talking with my sister, telling her how disappointed I was, when my cell phone rang. It was Patch; They were going to Faubacher’s. I groaned – not my favorite place. He said that everyone had met up and couldn’t decide whether to eat, so when that place closed and kicked them out, they decided to really start the night at Faubacher’s. (I didn’t point out that closing down one place meant the night had already started.) I don’t recall whether I asked or if he simply volunteered the names of who was there.
“Big Red, The Flirt, Wide-Eyed, the SoHB and his girlfriend, Michelle.”
“Oh? Is that the SoHB’s little whore’s name? Michelle?” I asked for spite.
“Uh … That’s something you’ll have to answer within yourself,” he hesitatingly replied.
I told him I wasn’t sure about coming out since I still hadn’t eaten anything and probably should before drinking. I said that I would call if I wouldn't be joining them.
After talking with him, I had to make a decision. I felt genuinely torn for several minutes. Did I want to remain safely guarded from their relationship, or did I want to expose myself and, hopefully, my strength to them?
I remembered my dad’s voice saying, “The SoHB isn’t grinding you into the ground. This is Kwirki grinding you into the ground.”
I heard The Flirt’s voice saying, “I just remember that the point things got better for me (after a breakup with his fiancée years earlier) was when I got mad – when I said, ‘F---- it. You don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine.’”
I still clearly felt the sting of being disregarded for a phone call when all of them met. That was how I started getting mad. But it wasn’t the kind of anger I had pictured from that conversation with The Flirt, for I had spent months being angry at the SoHB – enraged even to the point of cutting off contact. No, this anger was a kind of indignance that he should affect my life – indignance that friends would consider leaving me out because of him. Once that crossed my mind, there was no backing out of it.
I freshened my make-up, wanting to look fantastic, but not as though I tried too hard. No eyeshadow or heavy eyeliner. I wore my hair loose, as usual. My attire was a favorite pair of hip-hugger “skinny” jeans and a lightweight, beige sweater which wasn’t too snug, low-cut, or revealed my belly. My black boots with the chunky high heels and a striped cardigan finished off the ensemble. I was satisfied that my mirrored image revealed a casual, confident and sexy woman. I was ready for battle.
I left around 10:40pm with some reservations yet. What was I setting myself up for? It could go horribly wrong. Was it worth the risk for a friend’s birthday, especially one who nearly left me out? Erring on the side of caution would mean staying home. My foot trembled on the gas peddle, but I didn’t stop. I had to know what would happen, and I had to assert myself back into my rightful place with my friends.
A large group was leaving Faubacher’s as I drove into the parking lot. Seeing The Flirt’s baseball cap over the top of their heads confirmed that it was my group. The girl who walked briskly in front was unfamiliar to me, but with a slightly closer look, I knew it was her. I always felt that if we accidentally met somewhere she would recognize me first, for on that single, previous occasion, there was nothing memorable about her. I was pleased to have my first impression verified. She was as plain as I remembered. Our eyes locked briefly as I lowered my window to ask someone what was happening. If looks could kill, I would not be telling this story.
Patch informed me that the group was driven out by karaoke night. They were relocating to the considerably more sedate Bubble Lounge down the street. I arrived first since I never left my car. I warily watched for The SoHB and girlfriend as I waited outside, hoping the others would arrive first so I wouldn’t have to socialize with the happy couple. Fortunately, Big Red and Wide-Eyed came next; then The Flirt and Patch.
After the rest of us went inside, staked out a corner, and a couple went to the bar for drinks, I began wondering if they had forfeited the night. I could just imagine the conversation they must be having. I wondered if she was upset. I could imagine him gently urging her to continue the night, reasoning that I would naturally want to be there for Patch’s birthday. Surely she could put up with me for Patch’s birthday. They entered several minutes later. I was then able to get a better look at her. She was a busty girl in a low-cut, v-neck sweater and blue jeans, with shoulder length hair dyed overly dark. Just as I noted how much shorter I thought she would be, The Flirt teased her about her height (an obvious running gag), to which she cried, “And I’m wearing three-inch heels!”
Ah. That explained it.
I excused myself to go to the bar. My resolution was to drink no more than two beers. I wanted to make an appearance, get under someone’s skin a little, and get out. I needed to remain in control. On an empty stomach, I knew I couldn’t handle much alcohol.
While everyone settled into the cozy seating area (those two at the diagonal corner from me), the group talked idly about the new troubles at my old company. Everyone except his girlfriend worked or formerly worked there. In the midst of the gripe session, Patch stated, “You know that place is bad. Just look at Kwirki. She’s only been away from there a few months, and she already looks 10 years younger.”
I could have kissed him.
At that statement, the SoHB finally made introductions. He started with Wide-Eyed, whom she had apparently never met, and then moved to me.
“It’s great to put a name with the face, Michelle. Good to meet you,” I said as sweetly as I could. Everyone went silent. She politely greeted me in return, but her jaw was set firm. She wasn’t at all happy to meet me. This night could be fun.
I felt disinclined to engage either the SoHB or her in conversation, but I could tolerate her better than him. She, after all, hadn’t done anything to me. While hoping to remain civil, I gave myself full permission to dislike them both. I spoke with Patch on one side of me and Wide-Eyed on the other to avoid talking to them. I asked Big Red a little about his poker conquests, since he’d insisted on buying my first drink. All the while I observed this “girlfriend,” developing an impression – wondering what he could see in her to make him sacrifice me – knowing that she was bound to wonder about me, as well.
They didn’t sit touching, as I had expected. I remembered he always rested his foot or knee against mine when we dated, always wanting to touch – to be connected to me in some way. He involved himself in conversation with Big Red on his left while she chatted vivaciously with The Flirt on her right. I was dismayed and a little overwhelmed to notice how outgoing and bubbly she was. My only impression of her had come from the night I poured a drink on the SoHB. From a distance she had seemed very reserved. I expected her to be shy, even mousy. Here she was, effervescently filling our little corner with a lilting, teasing voice, perfectly at ease in the setting. She displayed the persona I believed to be my advantage. I expected my own vivaciousness to overwhelm her, but she trumped me. She even began to appear cute. She playfully slapped The Flirt’s knee when he teased her, enthralling him when he was supposed to be my secret weapon. She obviously wanted to be the center of attention.
During the course of conversation, she made a few insignificant remarks which were clearly intended to call attention to her and the SoHB’s status as a couple. She threw out a ‘we’ here and there; patted his knee maybe once. Eventually, I overheard part of a story she was telling The Flirt which sounded vaguely familiar. Then, I thought I heard her mention a familiar name.
“Who is this?” I suddenly interjected into the conversation.
“Oh, it’s this friend of ours named Harry*, who blah-blah-dee-blah-blah…”
“Yeah, I know Harry,” I stated, but she was too busy talking over me to hear. I laughed under my breath. She felt so threatened she had to assert their coupleness in even the mention of a friend's name. She needed to feel connected to a part of the SoHB’s life untouched by me. As I have played mental games with myself in attempt to devalue her role in his life, she has done the same with me. I remembered how he said my name often came up back when they had been together a couple of months. I remembered thinking how she must dislike that, but tolerates it in hope that it will pass. He had done the same when we dated – mentioning the ex-girlfriend more frequently than was comfortable and avoiding certain places in order to avoid her. The real tip off was avoiding certain places to avoid the memory of her. I remembered how he claimed to be over her, but I knew differently. It was a refreshing, empowering perspective.
The night wore on, and I took my turn teasing The Flirt and Patch. When those two entered a debate over the social consciousness of smoking, I distracted myself by talking sports with Wide-Eyed. But when Michelle, a smoker like The Flirt and the SoHB, entered the debate, I became interested. While she was thoroughly distracted by the discussion, I caught the SoHB’s eye and threw him the most withering “go to hell” look I could manage. He looked away. I just wanted him to know that despite my pleasantness this night, I was no more okay with their relationship than ever. My attention returned to the debate.
“Do you eat meat, Patch?” Michelle was asking for, maybe, the third time. “Do you drive a car?”
It was two against one. Patch was clearly frustrated, so I took up his defense.
“He’s saying that by smoking, you not only risk your own health, but anyone around you who wasn’t given the choice.”
“But everyone does something that puts their health at risk. You put your health at risk if you eat meat … if you drink alcohol,” she said.
I decided to get a little mean. “The SoHB is going to die of liver disease. He could die of lung cancer, actually. But if he dies of liver disease, it is because he chose to risk his own body by overindulging. Unless he drives drunk, he isn’t endangering anyone else,” I said goading for a reaction, but neither became defensive or batted an eye. I didn’t expect the SoHB would, but she didn’t dismiss me or jump to his defense. That made me think two things: 1) She’s noticed his alcohol abuse. 2) He’s told her how bluntly I’ve spoken with him about it. Maybe both aren’t true, but one must be.
“What about driving a car?” she asked. “The pollution from driving a car is harmful to everyone. That pollutes the air more than smoking does.”
“There is a worthwhile benefit to driving a car,” I argued. “It transports us from place to place, helping us function in daily living. Smoking is the only vice which carries no natural benefit. Eating meat or drinking alcohol can, if practiced in moderation, be beneficial to the body. They aren’t necessarily bad things.”
“What about scotch?” she asked. “Scotch doesn’t benefit the body,” she laughed.
“Well, I don’t know about scotch. I don’t drink scotch,” I chuckled; I was done. She had resorted to being silly. There is no reward in persuing an argument once someone stoops to that level.
In a moment, she returned to debating Patch, giving more of the same tired arguments. As she leaned forward to engage him, her bosom threatened to overflow her neckline. I suppressed an urge to call her attention to it. Her formerly daunting perkiness had also become irksomely overdone. A person can only take so much of that before it wears on one. That combined with her lack of any challenging arguments left me extremely unimpressed. I often looked at the SoHB hoping to catch his eye. I wanted to signal towards her and mouth at him, “Are you kidding me?” but he wouldn’t look my way.
I returned to giving Wide-Eyed a little attention. He truly was the odd man out, being a little shy … the newest and youngest of our group. I kept my eye on Michelle and the debate between Patch and The Flirt, although I no longer listened. I noticed that she dropped back from the conversation and sat solemnly. She still leaned over her crossed legs, but her eyes were downcast. I noted her body language – left leg over right, away from the SoHB – left elbow crossed over her knee with a cigarette dangling from the hand, pulling her upper body away from him as well. He was turned in conversation toward Big Red. Upon noticing her downcast appearance, he reached out to rub her lower back. I remembered him doing that to me, but seeing it wasn’t distressing. It was a shallow offer of comfort. She tilted her head slightly at that gesture, but didn’t turn. He didn’t even pause his conversation with Big Red. Her countenance remained downcast. I realized for the first time that her perkiness had been an act – a show for my benefit. She had hoped to disguise her insecurity with him. It became irksome because she was trying too hard. I looked momentarily away and caught the eye of a guy at the bar – the same one who smiled at me when I bought my last drink – and I smiled broadly in return. Yeah … I didn’t need the SoHB’s attention.
When I turned back to the group, I noticed Michelle touching the SoHB’s arm to get his attention, and read her lips as she asked, “Are you okay?” I presumed the situation of being around me had prompted her question, for he appeared perfectly fine and to still be enjoying conversation with Big Red. It amused me. Did she not want him to be okay? For if he wasn’t, even if it was because of me, it would mean that he needed her, wouldn’t it? And there was probably nothing she needed more in that moment than for him to need her. That must have been why it satisfied me to see him nod and turn back to Big Red. Watching her insecurity with him reveal itself gave me a thrill.
The Flirt left us, and I became a little concerned about the group whittling away, leaving me in an awkward situation. I had exceeded my two beer limit by one, and considered having another. However, The SoHB is always the last man standing, and I couldn’t allow myself to be stuck alone with him and Michelle while I nursed a final beer.
Big Red complained about the music, so the SoHB handed Michelle a bill to use at the jukebox. I observed her shape while her back was turned. She was small waisted, contradictory to how her bustline made her look. She had no butt whatsoever. After a minute, the SoHB joined her at the jukebox. I knew this was their chance to talk in semi-privacy – his chance to give the attention he had denied her earlier. Their arms entwined around each other’s waists. I remember thinking that she could have his affection, for his affection was cheap.
After the SoHB bought Patch another beer, he chose to sit in The Flirt’s old seat – next to Patch and directly across from me. There was a brief conversation about various bands and the upcoming Jazzfest in New Orleans. He showed clear intoxication, making his telltale face of one squinted eye while the other glares widely at you – an exaggerated expression meant to be humorous. I knew I would soon leave. He would be no good the rest of the night, and she could have him. It was always during these moments when I was vulnerable to him – when he could be his most open and loving, only to forget it in the morning. He and Michelle sat facing each other – him lightly holding her hand. I didn’t want to appear upset by their tête-à -tête, so I waited until they no longer touched before announcing my departure. Big Red protested which caught the SoHB’s attention. His sotted senses had been too absorbed to hear the reason, so Big Red explained that I was leaving.
“What!?? … No!!” exclaimed the SoHB, but quickly piped down; Don’t know why.
I said my last goodbye to Patch, wishing him one more happy birthday. I had to walk past the supposedly happy couple on my way out, so I made a point of stopping to tell Michelle goodbye and say it was nice meeting her. She did not look at me – merely tilted her head upward with closed eyes – as she returned the courtesy in her most gracious voice. I didn’t say anything to the SoHB, and walked out without looking back. I drove home elated. It was one in the morning, but I called my sister just to tell the story.
I have not had the pleasure of their company since that day, although I do look forward to seeing them again … that is, if she puts up with his neglect long enough. There was one subsequent opportunity; I showed up, but they didn’t. I’ve wondered if she thought I was gearing up to steal him from her. Such effort would be a waste of time, but, as I said at the beginning of that evening, I refuse to let him hinder my life anymore.
* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like
Mar 30, 2005
Mind Games: The Battle Within
On Monday following the Chili Cook-off – following those lingering glances and the wistful farewell – I still had not received any messages from the SoHB. It was disheartening; I was exasperated. I wrote a final message stating that I had approached him many times with a desire to make amends, but he was clearly disinterested in healing our rift. I asserted that I believed he would regret this decision, but trying to make him want what I want was futile. I said that I surrendered and wished him the best. Of course, there was no response. The next day I completely undermined myself by forwarding an article to him about the death of Hunter S. Thompson, since a favorite movie of his is Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
While enduring the agony of awaiting an unlikely response, I was forced into new soul searching ... beginning with his soul. My mind churned in circles trying to make sense of his inconsistent behavior … trying to reason how he could look at me so longingly at Haley’s while doing nothing to reconcile. It made me dizzy. I put an end to it by making a list. Other than the obvious but unsatisfactory “he won’t reconcile because he doesn’t care” reason, what could make him keep his distance? I decided to list all the things I know about him – things I know from experience and not fear – that are irrespective of our circumstances.
- The SoHB avoids all risk.
- The SoHB avoids any and all conflict.
- The SoHB is immeasurably insecure.
- The SoHB has an immature attitude towards relationships.
I added these qualities together like a formula and concluded that he is a man who has conditioned himself to take risks in only a few compulsory circumstances in order to function, but who can otherwise be depended upon to always choose the path of least resistance. (And this particular man has to liquor up for most of those risks.)
So, what does this mean to me? Well, it could mean things like:
- If he had feelings for me, he wouldn’t act on them out of fear of looking foolish when I rejected him a second time. (You can use this looking back a year, six months, or two weeks.)
- If he longed to reconcile, he still wouldn’t risk being verbally “beaten up”’ in an argument. He wouldn’t risk being proven wrong or getting himself hurt.
- If he still has feelings for me, he would fear revealing too much presuming rejection.
- If he felt bad about anything that he did, he wouldn’t admit fault to avoid succumbing to more feelings of worthlessness.
- If he still has feelings for me, he won’t put them on the line for fear that things are beyond repair.
- If he still has feelings for me, he won’t pursue me because he believes relationships should fall in your lap and never be a struggle. And he won’t sacrifice the sure thing, no matter how rewarding something else might be.
Next came the “If/Then” statements:
- If these statements are true, then I wasn’t just thrown away.
- If these statements are true, then I have tried everything within reason to reach him.
- If these statements are true, then he is a child – incapable of sustaining and nurturing a relationship.
- If these statements are true, then the value I placed on tender moments wasn’t one-sided; He’s simply too afraid of admitting their value.
- If these statements are true, then I am capable of hurting him.
- If these statements are true, then I am not forgotten.
- If these statements are true, then he’s probably afraid of me – more afraid of me than I am of him.
- If these statements are true, then I don’t have a monopoly on being weak and vulnerable.
I felt more powerful after this exercise. I didn’t consider every conclusion to reveal absolute truth, but it humanized him and his behavior in my mind, forcing me to acknowledge that his personal weakness – his tragic flaw – caused the inconsistencies. He’s a master of self-destruction, so why wouldn’t he shoot himself in the foot where I‘m concerned? It was tempting to imagine how I might use this knowledge to gain a new foothold in his life and win back his affection, but I knew this wasn’t something I ultimately wanted.
A day after making my list I received a casual reply to my e-mail about Hunter S. Thompson. The tone of his message was conversational, implying a desire to correspond, contingent upon never mentioning the trauma of our broken relationship, of course. It appeared my conclusions were correct. I was encouraged by his e-mail, but didn’t respond. I decided to keep my distance as I had originally resolved.
It helped that during this time I had a lunch with Ally* where I regaled her with the story of our estrangement. She expressed shock and disgust in all the appropriate places, and agreed with my assertion that by his choices one can see the SoHB doesn’t want a real relationship. Despite saying he wants a soul mate, his actions contradict that desire. My storytelling probably overstepped the bounds of politeness. I later realized that it was the only full disclosure conversation I’d had with anyone familiar with both the SoHB and me except for Rachel*. I had desperately needed that release, and walked away feeling much better. Not only did I get things off my chest (playing a little PR, too, as I hoped she would share my tale with Jeri*), but it was a nice start to a new friendship.
Later in the week, I had another encouraging conversation with my parents, especially Dad. He made a spontaneous, comforting remark, saying, “The SoHB has a problem, and he will make any girl miserable that ends up with him.” This was something I knew except when self-doubt and self-pity interfered. I always hid the excessive drinking from my conservative Baptist parents, so his opinion was based on the SoHB’s inability to handle his fears. He agreed that the SoHB was afraid of me – afraid of being “beaten up” in an argument – afraid that he couldn’t measure up to my accomplishments. I left their house feeling much lighter. It was early evening on Friday – Patch’s birthday. I had wrestled all day with the choice of joining him in birthday plans, knowing they were bound to include the SoHB and probably his girlfriend. I feared how I might handle the situation, but also felt an urge to test myself. How strong was I? and regarding my new theories about him – my old theories about him and her – how close was I to the bull’s eye?
* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.
Mar 3, 2005
Chili Cook-Off: The Anticlimax
I awoke early on the morning of Chili Cook-Off looking forward to the day. I even beat Rachel’s* wake up call, calling her instead. While getting ready, I listened to my self-made Over It CD, containing songs like “You’re No Good,” “Respect,” and “No More Drama.” I was rocking out to “You Better Be Good to Me” when Rachel arrived. I opened the door to find her rocking out on my stoop. Big Red soon showed up and we headed out to the cook-off.
We arrived as it opened, so I wasn’t worried about running into the SoHB immediately. There was no way he would be there that early. We visited Michael’s* booth first, then trolled around. There were surprisingly few impressive chilies. Most were too exotic to even taste like chili. As the day wore on, I became watchful for the SoHB. Jeri* arrived with her baby girl, but the SoHB wasn’t with her. In our phone conversation the previous night, The Flirt revealed that he planned on coming with the SoHB, but he arrived alone. When our group milled around a drinks stand near the gate, I couldn’t help scouring the incoming crowd for his face.
While we stood in that spot, my guitar friend and his new girlfriend found us. My pride being a bit wounded that he had a new girl, silly as that is, I hadn’t looked forward to seeing him, either. At least with the SoHB coming solo, and The Flirt’s girl getting stuck in Kentucky, it should be the only ego deflator of the day. We laughed as they recounted the steps he’d gone through to find us. My cell phone wasn’t working, so he had to call all over to get Rachel’s cell number, and he did all this from home because he refuses to get a cell phone himself. While telling their story, the new girl referred to my guitar friend as “honey.” I believe I literally cocked my head. “Honey” is an endearment seldom heard among unmarried couples or those who haven’t been together a while, at least. My guitar friend and I dated for as long as they’ve been together. I never thought to use any endearment with him, much less that one. It just seemed odd. Then, as we talked about the chilies we’d tried, including one containing alligator meat, we mentioned how that booth slapped us with stickers saying, “Tastes like chicken!” The guitar friend’s girl pipes up with, “Before chicken, what did they compare food to?” The entire group paused.
“Did she really just use that lame joke as her introduction?” I thought.
I looked over to my guitar friend wondering what he saw in this person. They seemed like such a mismatched pair. I looked back at her and took in her appearance. She was buxom; He must like that. In a group conversation wedged between our breakup and his meeting this girl, he confessed to liking large breasts. But her figure was a little heavy while my guitar friend is a slender man. I couldn’t see her eyes behind sunglasses, but she didn’t seem pretty. I looked back to my guitar friend wondering what he saw in her. She was friendly, but I couldn’t see any special appeal. Later, when Rachel and I walked by, she had her glasses off. Seeing her eyes didn’t change my impression. Rachel shortly said, “You know, she’s a cute girl, but she’s nowhere near as pretty as you.”
My thoughts were saying, “Cute?! She isn’t even cute. That’s being kind!” But, instead I said, “Thanks.” I was trying to keep the ‘humble yourself” attitude – on the outside, at least.
We saw a few acquaintances, also. Cheapskate and Brian*, friends of Michael, were there. They were ignorant of my dismissal at my company, so I had to explain that. We also saw Ally*, who had recently moved back to Mobile from Birmingham. The first thing Ally said to me after ‘Hello’ was, “Where’s the SoHB?”
“I don’t know. I have no idea,” I said as casually as possible. After a moment, I added, “We’re not speaking anymore, you know.”
“No!” she exclaimed. “What happened?”
“Long story,” I replied.
“Y’all were dating, weren’t you?”
“Well, no; Not really.”
“I heard he was dating a new girl.”
“Yeah. That has to do with it, but it’s a long story.”
I told her about pouring a drink on him, although I didn’t tell her details. She thought that was great. She said she’d always wanted to have the nerve to do that.
Our group was split as the Chili Cook-Off wound down. Rachel and I were on our own with Ally. We asked her to join us afterward, but she had other obligations. Someone called Rachel letting her know everyone had moved down to Haley’s. As soon as I heard ‘Haley’s,’ I knew that ‘everyone’ included the SoHB.
Rachel walked ahead of me into the bar, so she saw him before me. “The SoHB’s here,” she said in effort to forewarn me, but I knew.
He sat at the bar between The Flirt and an unknown woman. I didn’t think it was his girlfriend, but I couldn’t see her face. I had avoided alcohol all day, and was still apprehensive about drinking during such a ticklish situation, but decided I could take it easy.
Rachel and I sat at the bar staying on the fringes of the group, never moving near the middle where the SoHB was. The woman standing by him wasn’t his girlfriend, and she soon disappeared. I sensed his gaze long before allowing myself to look at him. Our eyes met and held. I offered a sad smile before looking away. This happened a few more times throughout the afternoon, his expression always sad. That was comforting.
I heard him laughing and speaking jovially with The Flirt who sat between us while I feigned indifference. I was dismayed by his laughter – by his enjoyment of the moment, but I knew he had to watch my joviality without participating as well. I hoped it made him long for me. I hoped that he was reminded of how he enjoyed my company.
Cheapskate was there and sat next to me. He yelled a smartass response to the SoHB as part of ongoing banter. I responded for Cheapskate’s ears only with something sarcastic. He looked at me, and I explained that the SoHB and I weren’t speaking anymore. He wanted to know what happened. I tried passing it off again as a long story, but he pressed for information. He asked if it had to do with his new girlfriend. I admitted that it did, saying that I’d tried talking to him about things, but he wouldn’t really talk to me about it.
“But, he’s weird,” Cheapskate stated.
I acknowledged the truth of that. I told him that we weren’t dating (There seemed to be some ambiguity in his mind as well.), but that didn’t stop him from sleeping over at my house on several occasions – and that the last occasion was even after he’d started seeing this girl.
“That is weird,” he responded.
Then, when I said something about this happening six months ago, he expressed confusion. He thought the SoHB started seeing this girl a year ago. I realized he mistakenly believed she was the same person the SoHB brought to my New Year’s Eve part a year ago. I was forced to run down the timeline of our relationship, beginning with how we dated for eight months before I broke up with him. I explained my reason for breaking up then was because I felt neglected. As an example, I told him about how the SoHB never called me his girlfriend, and after eight months as a couple, still has never referred to me as an ex-girlfriend.
“But, he’s weird,” Cheapskate repeated. I laughed. “Did you sleep with him?” he asked.
“No.”
“That’s why.”
“I don’t believe in it outside of marriage,” I clarified.
“I know – I know – You’re a good girl,” he said gently.
I found it oddly gratifying that he attributed my never being labeled a ‘girlfriend’ to our lack of a sexual relationship. I once threw that accusation at the SoHB during one of our early fights six months ago. He denied my allegation, saying we had simply never reached the point of being girlfriend/boyfriend. I want to take people at their word, especially people who have earned my trust, but I don’t think I ever fully believed him.
While I was trying to straighten out the sequence of events for Cheapskate, Big Red announced we were leaving. He was my ride, so I had to cut the story short. Cheapskate said he wanted to hear the rest, but there wasn’t time. I enjoyed having a sympathetic ear; Rachel enjoyed flirting with Brian, so we promised to return shortly since I didn’t live far away.
While walking out of Haley’s, Big Red stopped to go back for some reason. While waiting for him, I looked back and saw the SoHB standing alone and facing me from across the room, apparently watching me leave. I raised my hand as a silent goodbye. He raised his in return. Other than a few lingering glances, it was the only communication we shared all afternoon. I turned and walked out.
Rachel and I drove back to Haley’s after pit-stopping at my house. I looked forward to finishing my conversation with Cheapskate, but Haley’s was nearly deserted. We crossed the street to see if the guys went to Hero’s for food, and there they were. The SoHB stood at their table retrieving Cheapskate’s contact info. Once finished, he quickly left without looking at me.
Cheapskate asked where we left off in our story as soon as I sat. We reminded each other of the point where I stopped, but it wasn’t a conversation for the whole table. His attention span was impaired by alcohol, anyway. I thought there would be plenty of time to return to it later in the evening, but with there being only four of us, personal conversation wasn’t happening.
After Hero’s, the night ended up being a big bore. Cheapskate returned to his usual obnoxious, drunk personality. He pestered Rachel silly, and I hadn’t drunk enough to be amused. Dauphin St. didn’t provide any entertainment, so Rachel and I called it a night and were home by 10:30.
I don’t know what to think of the way the SoHB looked at me. I could easily read more into it than the remorse of a lost friend. The looks seemed to communicate longing and sorrow, or were those feeling only reflected from my own gaze? Could I have mistaken pity for longing? Or, if that was all he felt, would there be any evidence of it in his eyes? But if the longing I perceived there was real, why wasn’t it strong enough to draw him to me? I wish it had.
*=Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.
We arrived as it opened, so I wasn’t worried about running into the SoHB immediately. There was no way he would be there that early. We visited Michael’s* booth first, then trolled around. There were surprisingly few impressive chilies. Most were too exotic to even taste like chili. As the day wore on, I became watchful for the SoHB. Jeri* arrived with her baby girl, but the SoHB wasn’t with her. In our phone conversation the previous night, The Flirt revealed that he planned on coming with the SoHB, but he arrived alone. When our group milled around a drinks stand near the gate, I couldn’t help scouring the incoming crowd for his face.
While we stood in that spot, my guitar friend and his new girlfriend found us. My pride being a bit wounded that he had a new girl, silly as that is, I hadn’t looked forward to seeing him, either. At least with the SoHB coming solo, and The Flirt’s girl getting stuck in Kentucky, it should be the only ego deflator of the day. We laughed as they recounted the steps he’d gone through to find us. My cell phone wasn’t working, so he had to call all over to get Rachel’s cell number, and he did all this from home because he refuses to get a cell phone himself. While telling their story, the new girl referred to my guitar friend as “honey.” I believe I literally cocked my head. “Honey” is an endearment seldom heard among unmarried couples or those who haven’t been together a while, at least. My guitar friend and I dated for as long as they’ve been together. I never thought to use any endearment with him, much less that one. It just seemed odd. Then, as we talked about the chilies we’d tried, including one containing alligator meat, we mentioned how that booth slapped us with stickers saying, “Tastes like chicken!” The guitar friend’s girl pipes up with, “Before chicken, what did they compare food to?” The entire group paused.
“Did she really just use that lame joke as her introduction?” I thought.
I looked over to my guitar friend wondering what he saw in this person. They seemed like such a mismatched pair. I looked back at her and took in her appearance. She was buxom; He must like that. In a group conversation wedged between our breakup and his meeting this girl, he confessed to liking large breasts. But her figure was a little heavy while my guitar friend is a slender man. I couldn’t see her eyes behind sunglasses, but she didn’t seem pretty. I looked back to my guitar friend wondering what he saw in her. She was friendly, but I couldn’t see any special appeal. Later, when Rachel and I walked by, she had her glasses off. Seeing her eyes didn’t change my impression. Rachel shortly said, “You know, she’s a cute girl, but she’s nowhere near as pretty as you.”
My thoughts were saying, “Cute?! She isn’t even cute. That’s being kind!” But, instead I said, “Thanks.” I was trying to keep the ‘humble yourself” attitude – on the outside, at least.
We saw a few acquaintances, also. Cheapskate and Brian*, friends of Michael, were there. They were ignorant of my dismissal at my company, so I had to explain that. We also saw Ally*, who had recently moved back to Mobile from Birmingham. The first thing Ally said to me after ‘Hello’ was, “Where’s the SoHB?”
“I don’t know. I have no idea,” I said as casually as possible. After a moment, I added, “We’re not speaking anymore, you know.”
“No!” she exclaimed. “What happened?”
“Long story,” I replied.
“Y’all were dating, weren’t you?”
“Well, no; Not really.”
“I heard he was dating a new girl.”
“Yeah. That has to do with it, but it’s a long story.”
I told her about pouring a drink on him, although I didn’t tell her details. She thought that was great. She said she’d always wanted to have the nerve to do that.
Our group was split as the Chili Cook-Off wound down. Rachel and I were on our own with Ally. We asked her to join us afterward, but she had other obligations. Someone called Rachel letting her know everyone had moved down to Haley’s. As soon as I heard ‘Haley’s,’ I knew that ‘everyone’ included the SoHB.
Rachel walked ahead of me into the bar, so she saw him before me. “The SoHB’s here,” she said in effort to forewarn me, but I knew.
He sat at the bar between The Flirt and an unknown woman. I didn’t think it was his girlfriend, but I couldn’t see her face. I had avoided alcohol all day, and was still apprehensive about drinking during such a ticklish situation, but decided I could take it easy.
Rachel and I sat at the bar staying on the fringes of the group, never moving near the middle where the SoHB was. The woman standing by him wasn’t his girlfriend, and she soon disappeared. I sensed his gaze long before allowing myself to look at him. Our eyes met and held. I offered a sad smile before looking away. This happened a few more times throughout the afternoon, his expression always sad. That was comforting.
I heard him laughing and speaking jovially with The Flirt who sat between us while I feigned indifference. I was dismayed by his laughter – by his enjoyment of the moment, but I knew he had to watch my joviality without participating as well. I hoped it made him long for me. I hoped that he was reminded of how he enjoyed my company.
Cheapskate was there and sat next to me. He yelled a smartass response to the SoHB as part of ongoing banter. I responded for Cheapskate’s ears only with something sarcastic. He looked at me, and I explained that the SoHB and I weren’t speaking anymore. He wanted to know what happened. I tried passing it off again as a long story, but he pressed for information. He asked if it had to do with his new girlfriend. I admitted that it did, saying that I’d tried talking to him about things, but he wouldn’t really talk to me about it.
“But, he’s weird,” Cheapskate stated.
I acknowledged the truth of that. I told him that we weren’t dating (There seemed to be some ambiguity in his mind as well.), but that didn’t stop him from sleeping over at my house on several occasions – and that the last occasion was even after he’d started seeing this girl.
“That is weird,” he responded.
Then, when I said something about this happening six months ago, he expressed confusion. He thought the SoHB started seeing this girl a year ago. I realized he mistakenly believed she was the same person the SoHB brought to my New Year’s Eve part a year ago. I was forced to run down the timeline of our relationship, beginning with how we dated for eight months before I broke up with him. I explained my reason for breaking up then was because I felt neglected. As an example, I told him about how the SoHB never called me his girlfriend, and after eight months as a couple, still has never referred to me as an ex-girlfriend.
“But, he’s weird,” Cheapskate repeated. I laughed. “Did you sleep with him?” he asked.
“No.”
“That’s why.”
“I don’t believe in it outside of marriage,” I clarified.
“I know – I know – You’re a good girl,” he said gently.
I found it oddly gratifying that he attributed my never being labeled a ‘girlfriend’ to our lack of a sexual relationship. I once threw that accusation at the SoHB during one of our early fights six months ago. He denied my allegation, saying we had simply never reached the point of being girlfriend/boyfriend. I want to take people at their word, especially people who have earned my trust, but I don’t think I ever fully believed him.
While I was trying to straighten out the sequence of events for Cheapskate, Big Red announced we were leaving. He was my ride, so I had to cut the story short. Cheapskate said he wanted to hear the rest, but there wasn’t time. I enjoyed having a sympathetic ear; Rachel enjoyed flirting with Brian, so we promised to return shortly since I didn’t live far away.
While walking out of Haley’s, Big Red stopped to go back for some reason. While waiting for him, I looked back and saw the SoHB standing alone and facing me from across the room, apparently watching me leave. I raised my hand as a silent goodbye. He raised his in return. Other than a few lingering glances, it was the only communication we shared all afternoon. I turned and walked out.
Rachel and I drove back to Haley’s after pit-stopping at my house. I looked forward to finishing my conversation with Cheapskate, but Haley’s was nearly deserted. We crossed the street to see if the guys went to Hero’s for food, and there they were. The SoHB stood at their table retrieving Cheapskate’s contact info. Once finished, he quickly left without looking at me.
Cheapskate asked where we left off in our story as soon as I sat. We reminded each other of the point where I stopped, but it wasn’t a conversation for the whole table. His attention span was impaired by alcohol, anyway. I thought there would be plenty of time to return to it later in the evening, but with there being only four of us, personal conversation wasn’t happening.
After Hero’s, the night ended up being a big bore. Cheapskate returned to his usual obnoxious, drunk personality. He pestered Rachel silly, and I hadn’t drunk enough to be amused. Dauphin St. didn’t provide any entertainment, so Rachel and I called it a night and were home by 10:30.
I don’t know what to think of the way the SoHB looked at me. I could easily read more into it than the remorse of a lost friend. The looks seemed to communicate longing and sorrow, or were those feeling only reflected from my own gaze? Could I have mistaken pity for longing? Or, if that was all he felt, would there be any evidence of it in his eyes? But if the longing I perceived there was real, why wasn’t it strong enough to draw him to me? I wish it had.
*=Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.
Mar 1, 2005
Prelude to a Cook-Off: Part 2
I was taken aback by The Flirt’s appearance on my doorstep. Knowing what he wanted, I slowly unlatched the door and opened it a crack.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He smirked down at me, puffing away. “I was in the neighborhood, saw your light was still on, so I decided to stop by to see what you were doing.”
He had been Downtown drinking with friends. I regarded him wryly. “I was in bed – about to go to sleep.”
“Going to sleep ...”
“Yeah.” There was no doubt as to what was on his mind. “You came by for a booty call, huh?”
“No,” he said. “Sure, I hoped, but I just came by to see how you were.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about things, and I’ve decided that … I’m a real idiot.”
He chuckled, “We’re all idiots.”
I smiled and looked down. “Yeah, well that’s okay for you, but I’m supposed to be better than all you peons.”
“Oh, really,” he laughed.
“Yeah. I’m supposed to be perfect.”
He continued smirking at me as he finished his cigarette. I continued eyeing him warily.
“I’ll pick that up later,” he said as he flicked the butt into the yard. I nodded while making a mental note of where it landed. I would be the one picking it up. “Well, are you going to make me leave or let me come in?”
I hesitated, knowing his intentions, but felt secure in my own sober resolve. I let him in. He immediately went to the restroom. I curled up on the couch to finish searching for that verse in Job. When he eventually joined me at the other end of the couch, I set it aside and explained what I was doing. I told him how foolish I felt … how proud I’d been. He nodded as though he understood. He said he didn’t know how it might have helped him if he’d had someone to talk to years ago. I reached over to lightly grasp the fingers of his resting outstretched hand. He looked as if he could fall asleep where he sat.
“Do you really not want to …,” he asked.
I laid my cheek against the couch as I looked at him and said, “No, I really don’t.”
“I’ll probably be glad that you didn’t.”
I smiled. “Do you want to sleep in the guest room?”
“Well, it’s better than the couch.”
I followed him to make certain he didn’t need anything, and then returned to my own bed. I laid there thinking about him lying so close in that other room. Fortunately, it was across the house, so we couldn’t hear each other. I felt the lure of going to him, but was resolved to stay. I would soon fall asleep and all would be okay. I relaxed, pleased with myself for resisting temptation.
Then I heard footsteps coming through my kitchen. His silhouette soon appeared at my bedroom door. I silently chastised myself for leaving it open like an invitation, while also feeling thrilled by his boldness. I didn’t move or speak. Fully clothed, he laid down beside me on top of the covers. I regarded him with amusement. He even still wore his baseball cap. I laughed at him, removing it and throwing it across the room. We didn’t speak. Gert lay between us like a shield.
“I guess I should leave,” he said. I knew that he should, but didn’t want him to. I moved closer, putting Gert on the other side of me. If a dog can be nonplussed, I think she was.
I moved to the crook of his shoulder, pulling his other arm around my waist. He used this opportunity to try groping me, but I kept his hand away, holding it securely against my side. I can’t remember any words we spoke. Eventually, he moved to kiss me, and I wanted to be kissed. The recesses of my mind imagined the appropriateness of the situation, given that I would face the SoHB the next day. My ego needed the boost.
We embraced and kissed deeper. I wondered if I would be able to maintain my boundaries. I knew, but didn’t wish to admit, that I couldn’t. I allowed him liberties, but I wished to prevent carrying it as far as before. He broke through my resistance with gentle pleas and persistence. I allowed things to progress to the same point they had last time. It was more than I wanted, but I still felt secure. But, as always, he pushed for more. My feeling of security evaporated. I told him I was uncomfortable. He tried pleading through my fears with words of, “Trust me. I wouldn’t do that to you,” but didn’t back off. Eventually he made a move I couldn’t tolerate, presuming I would go along despite my history of protests against it. I quickly pulled away, putting an end to our tryst.
“That’s it,” I said. “I’m done.”
“That’s it? Just like that?” he asked.
“Yup.” I pulled the cover over me and laid there a minute. Then, I laid my head on his stomach, looking into his half-closed eyes as I said, “You just don’t get it, Flirt.”
“No, I don’t,” he replied.
I paused as I weighed my words. “I want more … I mean, in general.”
He nodded. “Well, we all want more,” he said.
I briefly tried explaining why what he wanted wasn’t acceptable. I don’t know if he fully heard me. Within a couple of minutes his breathing changed to that of sleep. I thought to sleep myself, but was too uncomfortable lying there with him like that. I woke him to make him right himself. Next thing I knew, he was preparing to leave. I told him he didn’t have to leave; I wasn’t kicking him out. He said he knew, but was going to go. I didn’t know what to say to him. He seemed in a funk. I didn’t know if I said something to bruise his ego, if he felt guilt toward his Kentucky girl, or if he was simply disappointed with my ending things so abruptly. Several minutes after he left, I thought to call and check on what bothered him, but decided against it. I didn’t need to be in everyone’s face knowing everything they’re thinking all the time. I went back to bed with Gert and slept like the dead.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He smirked down at me, puffing away. “I was in the neighborhood, saw your light was still on, so I decided to stop by to see what you were doing.”
He had been Downtown drinking with friends. I regarded him wryly. “I was in bed – about to go to sleep.”
“Going to sleep ...”
“Yeah.” There was no doubt as to what was on his mind. “You came by for a booty call, huh?”
“No,” he said. “Sure, I hoped, but I just came by to see how you were.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about things, and I’ve decided that … I’m a real idiot.”
He chuckled, “We’re all idiots.”
I smiled and looked down. “Yeah, well that’s okay for you, but I’m supposed to be better than all you peons.”
“Oh, really,” he laughed.
“Yeah. I’m supposed to be perfect.”
He continued smirking at me as he finished his cigarette. I continued eyeing him warily.
“I’ll pick that up later,” he said as he flicked the butt into the yard. I nodded while making a mental note of where it landed. I would be the one picking it up. “Well, are you going to make me leave or let me come in?”
I hesitated, knowing his intentions, but felt secure in my own sober resolve. I let him in. He immediately went to the restroom. I curled up on the couch to finish searching for that verse in Job. When he eventually joined me at the other end of the couch, I set it aside and explained what I was doing. I told him how foolish I felt … how proud I’d been. He nodded as though he understood. He said he didn’t know how it might have helped him if he’d had someone to talk to years ago. I reached over to lightly grasp the fingers of his resting outstretched hand. He looked as if he could fall asleep where he sat.
“Do you really not want to …,” he asked.
I laid my cheek against the couch as I looked at him and said, “No, I really don’t.”
“I’ll probably be glad that you didn’t.”
I smiled. “Do you want to sleep in the guest room?”
“Well, it’s better than the couch.”
I followed him to make certain he didn’t need anything, and then returned to my own bed. I laid there thinking about him lying so close in that other room. Fortunately, it was across the house, so we couldn’t hear each other. I felt the lure of going to him, but was resolved to stay. I would soon fall asleep and all would be okay. I relaxed, pleased with myself for resisting temptation.
Then I heard footsteps coming through my kitchen. His silhouette soon appeared at my bedroom door. I silently chastised myself for leaving it open like an invitation, while also feeling thrilled by his boldness. I didn’t move or speak. Fully clothed, he laid down beside me on top of the covers. I regarded him with amusement. He even still wore his baseball cap. I laughed at him, removing it and throwing it across the room. We didn’t speak. Gert lay between us like a shield.
“I guess I should leave,” he said. I knew that he should, but didn’t want him to. I moved closer, putting Gert on the other side of me. If a dog can be nonplussed, I think she was.
I moved to the crook of his shoulder, pulling his other arm around my waist. He used this opportunity to try groping me, but I kept his hand away, holding it securely against my side. I can’t remember any words we spoke. Eventually, he moved to kiss me, and I wanted to be kissed. The recesses of my mind imagined the appropriateness of the situation, given that I would face the SoHB the next day. My ego needed the boost.
We embraced and kissed deeper. I wondered if I would be able to maintain my boundaries. I knew, but didn’t wish to admit, that I couldn’t. I allowed him liberties, but I wished to prevent carrying it as far as before. He broke through my resistance with gentle pleas and persistence. I allowed things to progress to the same point they had last time. It was more than I wanted, but I still felt secure. But, as always, he pushed for more. My feeling of security evaporated. I told him I was uncomfortable. He tried pleading through my fears with words of, “Trust me. I wouldn’t do that to you,” but didn’t back off. Eventually he made a move I couldn’t tolerate, presuming I would go along despite my history of protests against it. I quickly pulled away, putting an end to our tryst.
“That’s it,” I said. “I’m done.”
“That’s it? Just like that?” he asked.
“Yup.” I pulled the cover over me and laid there a minute. Then, I laid my head on his stomach, looking into his half-closed eyes as I said, “You just don’t get it, Flirt.”
“No, I don’t,” he replied.
I paused as I weighed my words. “I want more … I mean, in general.”
He nodded. “Well, we all want more,” he said.
I briefly tried explaining why what he wanted wasn’t acceptable. I don’t know if he fully heard me. Within a couple of minutes his breathing changed to that of sleep. I thought to sleep myself, but was too uncomfortable lying there with him like that. I woke him to make him right himself. Next thing I knew, he was preparing to leave. I told him he didn’t have to leave; I wasn’t kicking him out. He said he knew, but was going to go. I didn’t know what to say to him. He seemed in a funk. I didn’t know if I said something to bruise his ego, if he felt guilt toward his Kentucky girl, or if he was simply disappointed with my ending things so abruptly. Several minutes after he left, I thought to call and check on what bothered him, but decided against it. I didn’t need to be in everyone’s face knowing everything they’re thinking all the time. I went back to bed with Gert and slept like the dead.
Feb 24, 2005
Prelude to a Cook-Off: Part 1
I have a confession to make, dear reader. I’ve withheld information from you out of my own pride and fear of ridicule. The same day I awoke from dreams about the SoHB, I sent him an e-mail – a rambling, revealing, vulnerable message. I knew that I shouldn’t, but my thoughts spilled out of me. After a couple of days with no reply, I followed up with another e-mail simply stating, “Point taken. I understand. It’s too bad; I feel very badly for you. Wish you well.” He responded late that afternoon saying that I had jumped to conclusions, and he intended to respond to my e-mail. After a few more days had passed, I sent a message apologizing for jumping to conclusions – that it had occurred to me that 2 ½ days (now 6) was plenty of time for a person to say something, if he had anything to say. He didn’t reply.
Thursday night I sent out two e-mails: a silly one to all my friends, in which I included the SoHB for a change, and another for only the SoHB that was about a workshop series I thought would interest him. Friday morning he replied to the workshop notice with a ‘thank you’ and a little note about how he wished they were held on different days. Since he gave me an inch, I decided to try for a mile. I asked if he was ever going to respond to my original e-mail. He answered that it would nice if we could be friends; He just didn’t want to argue with me or anything like that. I replied with an e-mail that said I wasn’t looking to argue, but it may happen. I said that since I didn’t know his thoughts or feelings, I couldn’t predict what my reactions might be. I likewise couldn’t predict how he would react to my own thoughts, but that was the risk one took when something important was on the line. It was important to me, at least. I said that I hoped I would be worth risking an argument, if that’s what it came to, but that was up to him. I told him that I personally couldn’t carry on with a person as though there wasn’t an elephant in the room. I asked that since pretense made me uncomfortable, and confrontation made him uncomfortable, what were we going to do?
I stayed online while clipping coupons for a trip to the store, but the magical mail chime didn’t sound. I did my grocery shopping and returned to immediately check my messages. Nothing. It had been three hours since my last e-mail. I sent a final message of “Say something,” but believed he had already left work. There would be no response before seeing him. I was downtrodden.
Rachel* had invited me to happy hour, but I knew I couldn’t risk drinking in my current frame of mind. I desperately needed to talk to an understanding ear; I needed a shoulder to cry on. I needed someone who wasn’t overtired of the story and who wouldn’t shrink from my tears. I needed The Flirt.
I called him knowing the chance of his availability was slim. Miss Kentucky had to be coming in that night if she was going to the Chili Cook-Off. I was surprised he even answered the phone. After verifying that he had no plans for the evening (Miss Kentucky had conveniently missed her flight), I asked if I could come over to talk. He naturally wondered what I needed to talk about, but I was reluctant to discuss anything over the phone. I assured him that it wasn’t about us; I just needed to talk. He was reticent about letting me visit, but I felt a phone conversation was too impersonal. I wanted to know why I couldn’t come over. He tried excusing himself saying he might go out later, and I tried telling him I wouldn’t stay long. To my persistent inquiries over his reluctance, he eventually revealed that he didn’t trust himself. I argued that since we were both sober, I trusted us, and particularly myself, but he wasn't buying. Then, it was my turn to spill.
I told him that I needed to talk about the SoHB and me – that he had the most insight into our relationship. He had seen us through all stages and could sometimes surprise me with his observations. I confessed to recently sending e-mails to the SoHB and questioned why he wouldn’t even try to reconcile. I wanted to know why he was so willing to let everything go. Why wouldn’t he risk an argument if it could mean saving our friendship? I tried to remain within the confines of the last few weeks. I didn’t want to put him in the middle any more than I had to. He revealed that the SoHB hadn’t told him what happened, except to mention that he’d said something while drunk. My only response was to say that while accurate, it wasn’t the only thing to have caused this rift.
He didn’t offer any revealing insight, but then, I didn’t expect it. I just needed a supportive ear – someone to validate my hurt feelings. I finished our conversation and moved on to other things. As the evening deepened, I found myself becoming angry again. I re-read my account of events posted here, because reading it two days earlier had given me a new perspective. I saw how transparently I argued about being wronged, trying to prove my case when all along I could have made different choices, also. It helped, but only slightly. As I prepared for bed, I was plagued with thoughts of making biting comments to him, especially about his girlfriend since The Flirt told me she wasn’t coming. I couldn’t retrieve my thoughts from their vicious bend. I was angered that he ignored my last e-mail knowing we were bound to see each other the next day. I felt helpless. It felt as though I’d undone all my hard work preparing myself for this event. I sat on the side of my bathtub and prayed.
As I prayed for guidance in handling the situation – in handling my anger – God whispered, “Humble yourself. When you humble yourself before your enemy, I can be your defense.”
Visions of David and Goliath, Job and his friends, My Lord before the Sanhedrin passed through my mind, all situations where victory was achieved through meekness. I knew I’d hit the wisdom jackpot with this one. There was no way to fail. The answer was very simple; my stumbling block was pride. Although opposed to renewing any romance throughout most of our relationship, I didn’t want him to stop longing for it. My pride kept me from speaking to him that first two weeks after he confessed to seeing this girl. My pride wouldn’t allow me to consider that he may have done the best he could. There was only one thing left to do – make an offering.
Whenever I feel my spirit is in abject poverty over a situation, I know that there is some flaw in my character which needs to be sacrificed – that must be purged by offering it to God. I go through a ritual of dimming the lights, covering my hair with a shawl, and kneeling before my couch, a chair or low stool, or my bed. (This particular night I added lit candles to the routine.) Then I pray an offertory prayer, giving over to God whatever weakness plagues me. So, I offered my pride to the Lord this night, asking that He replace it with a spirit of humility. I asked that He remind me to be humble as I faced the SoHB the next day.
I went to bed with my Bible, wanting to read by lamplight a passage from Job. I remembered studying it in college and being moved that God had Job make an offering for the friends who maligned him. I studied it in conjunction with Matthew 5:24, which comes from the Sermon on the Mount and says:
Thursday night I sent out two e-mails: a silly one to all my friends, in which I included the SoHB for a change, and another for only the SoHB that was about a workshop series I thought would interest him. Friday morning he replied to the workshop notice with a ‘thank you’ and a little note about how he wished they were held on different days. Since he gave me an inch, I decided to try for a mile. I asked if he was ever going to respond to my original e-mail. He answered that it would nice if we could be friends; He just didn’t want to argue with me or anything like that. I replied with an e-mail that said I wasn’t looking to argue, but it may happen. I said that since I didn’t know his thoughts or feelings, I couldn’t predict what my reactions might be. I likewise couldn’t predict how he would react to my own thoughts, but that was the risk one took when something important was on the line. It was important to me, at least. I said that I hoped I would be worth risking an argument, if that’s what it came to, but that was up to him. I told him that I personally couldn’t carry on with a person as though there wasn’t an elephant in the room. I asked that since pretense made me uncomfortable, and confrontation made him uncomfortable, what were we going to do?
I stayed online while clipping coupons for a trip to the store, but the magical mail chime didn’t sound. I did my grocery shopping and returned to immediately check my messages. Nothing. It had been three hours since my last e-mail. I sent a final message of “Say something,” but believed he had already left work. There would be no response before seeing him. I was downtrodden.
Rachel* had invited me to happy hour, but I knew I couldn’t risk drinking in my current frame of mind. I desperately needed to talk to an understanding ear; I needed a shoulder to cry on. I needed someone who wasn’t overtired of the story and who wouldn’t shrink from my tears. I needed The Flirt.
I called him knowing the chance of his availability was slim. Miss Kentucky had to be coming in that night if she was going to the Chili Cook-Off. I was surprised he even answered the phone. After verifying that he had no plans for the evening (Miss Kentucky had conveniently missed her flight), I asked if I could come over to talk. He naturally wondered what I needed to talk about, but I was reluctant to discuss anything over the phone. I assured him that it wasn’t about us; I just needed to talk. He was reticent about letting me visit, but I felt a phone conversation was too impersonal. I wanted to know why I couldn’t come over. He tried excusing himself saying he might go out later, and I tried telling him I wouldn’t stay long. To my persistent inquiries over his reluctance, he eventually revealed that he didn’t trust himself. I argued that since we were both sober, I trusted us, and particularly myself, but he wasn't buying. Then, it was my turn to spill.
I told him that I needed to talk about the SoHB and me – that he had the most insight into our relationship. He had seen us through all stages and could sometimes surprise me with his observations. I confessed to recently sending e-mails to the SoHB and questioned why he wouldn’t even try to reconcile. I wanted to know why he was so willing to let everything go. Why wouldn’t he risk an argument if it could mean saving our friendship? I tried to remain within the confines of the last few weeks. I didn’t want to put him in the middle any more than I had to. He revealed that the SoHB hadn’t told him what happened, except to mention that he’d said something while drunk. My only response was to say that while accurate, it wasn’t the only thing to have caused this rift.
He didn’t offer any revealing insight, but then, I didn’t expect it. I just needed a supportive ear – someone to validate my hurt feelings. I finished our conversation and moved on to other things. As the evening deepened, I found myself becoming angry again. I re-read my account of events posted here, because reading it two days earlier had given me a new perspective. I saw how transparently I argued about being wronged, trying to prove my case when all along I could have made different choices, also. It helped, but only slightly. As I prepared for bed, I was plagued with thoughts of making biting comments to him, especially about his girlfriend since The Flirt told me she wasn’t coming. I couldn’t retrieve my thoughts from their vicious bend. I was angered that he ignored my last e-mail knowing we were bound to see each other the next day. I felt helpless. It felt as though I’d undone all my hard work preparing myself for this event. I sat on the side of my bathtub and prayed.
As I prayed for guidance in handling the situation – in handling my anger – God whispered, “Humble yourself. When you humble yourself before your enemy, I can be your defense.”
Visions of David and Goliath, Job and his friends, My Lord before the Sanhedrin passed through my mind, all situations where victory was achieved through meekness. I knew I’d hit the wisdom jackpot with this one. There was no way to fail. The answer was very simple; my stumbling block was pride. Although opposed to renewing any romance throughout most of our relationship, I didn’t want him to stop longing for it. My pride kept me from speaking to him that first two weeks after he confessed to seeing this girl. My pride wouldn’t allow me to consider that he may have done the best he could. There was only one thing left to do – make an offering.
Whenever I feel my spirit is in abject poverty over a situation, I know that there is some flaw in my character which needs to be sacrificed – that must be purged by offering it to God. I go through a ritual of dimming the lights, covering my hair with a shawl, and kneeling before my couch, a chair or low stool, or my bed. (This particular night I added lit candles to the routine.) Then I pray an offertory prayer, giving over to God whatever weakness plagues me. So, I offered my pride to the Lord this night, asking that He replace it with a spirit of humility. I asked that He remind me to be humble as I faced the SoHB the next day.
I went to bed with my Bible, wanting to read by lamplight a passage from Job. I remembered studying it in college and being moved that God had Job make an offering for the friends who maligned him. I studied it in conjunction with Matthew 5:24, which comes from the Sermon on the Mount and says:
Leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift.
I was in the midst of finding just the right verse in Job when my doorbell rang. I was startled; It was past 1 o’clock. Who could be ringing my doorbell at that hour? The only person who ever did that was the SoHB when stopping by after a drinking binge. Could it…? Surely not. There was only one occasion when someone other than the SoHB rang my doorbell like that, and it was strangers who obviously had the wrong house. I put on my robe and warily padded to the door. I moved as silently as possible in case I didn’t want to answer the door. I peered through the peephole, and there he was, smugly puffing a cigarette …
… The Flirt.
*** to be continued***
* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.
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