For her birthday, I planned to give Pink Panther, a thick wad of ecru business cards with the title "Professional Heartbreaker" embossed on them. I didn't, lest she sends me back a pack that reads "The Other Woman."
On Tuesday, Smugface and I watch Avengers. Condescending. Insufferable. Patronizing. Narcissistic. Single. Eligible. Smugface. Nothing happens. No frisson of interest. No excitement. No fun. We talk a bit, mostly coz we are sitting next to each other and because its break time.
Then there is Cuba. On Wednesday. With his obsidian eyes and unkempt hair sticking out at all angles and his wicked wit and his dry sarcasm and his whistling and his calm and his...everything. Him, I can't stop laughing with. Him, I tease mercilessly. Him, I have inappropriate thoughts about. Him, I want to know more. Him, who, I find out after every other creature on middle earth, has a girlfriend.
On Thursday. Time to detox. The weather's perfect. Azure sky, smell of rain, green everywhere. Decide to skip the gym (for the second week in a row). Go to walk in the park instead. Almost immediately, I run into Dark Lord. Stupid. Self-absorbed. Insensitive. Friend of first order. Dark Lord. Our talk is forced, perfunctory, stilted. He's leaving, he tells me. I can't respond. Or reciprocate warmly. He walks away. I walk on. Time passes. Slowly, the calm begins to set in. Thoughts recede. The aching black gloom begins to lift. A smile starts to form. No sooner, a tap on my shoulder. It's the Surgeon. Distinguished. Suave. Fun. Married. Surgeon. We fall into step. An hour later we're still talking. He says we should do this again. I smile. He texts. I ignore. Detox. #epicfail.
Friday arrives bright and sunny. Nothing can bring me down. Still, I choose the most non-threatening option -- Junkie. Hippie. Boho. Nihilistic. Funny. Junkie. The movie is a dud. I'm zoned out. Junkie wants go to drinking. I don't. I want to crawl into a hole and stay put. Instead, I put up a bright, happy face. He can tell. It seems everyone can tell. So he brings me home.
Saturday, go to work, come home. Read. Not go anywhere. Not meet anyone.
Sunday, Repeat. No incidents. Relief. Bedtime. Phone rings.
Yardley: "You really should go out more, you know. Or you'll die alone. Really. Can you please just meet this guy, he's just your type."
Me: "Is he single?"
Yardley. "No, but I swear you guys are meant for each other."
No comments:
Post a Comment
What say you?