"This isn't working."
No shit, Sherlock, I'm thinking. And seething. All the while attempting to preserve an air of icy dignity and resignation. I came here tonight to break up. Or be broken up with. That is how any reasonable human would interpret the events preceding. And I would prefer to get this over with and go home to lick my wounds with a brownie (or twelve) in bed.
We begin to tenderly negotiate the terms of our talk. He admits to resistance. I admit to various tactics of self-preservation. He is not one to only "sort of" show up, he says. Sure fooled me, I say.
He continues to circumnavigate. I continue to steel myself for the inevitable. We are discussing the awkwardness of halfway, of half-assed, of flying half mast. It is too.... "Nebulous." I complete his sentence. Expediency is key. "Exactly," he says. Here it comes. "What we've been doing . . ." he starts, and I fire back with, "It's basically book club with semi-weekly sex."
For a second, I think I have offended him. But he laughs. And I laugh. We are laughing. The waitress comes and pours our chilled Cynar and we are still laughing when she plunks down a teapot and two saucers and goes back inside. Tender green leaves, damp from the evening drizzle, are waving over the wall of St. Pat's. It is chilly and we are outside the café, for the quiet. I must hear every word of this rejection.
I wrap my hands around the wrought iron teapot. It is too hot to hold, but the warm is good. I feel rooted now. My hands have someplace to be. "I guess what I'm saying is . . ." I turn to face him, my fingertips scalded, clutching the potful of chamomile rooibos and trying to look casual.
"I want to try and embrace this. For real."
Wait. Really? "I'm . . . surprised. That is not what I expected you to say."
"Me neither."
And—just like that—it's Spring.
(And the world is mud-luscious, puddle wonderful. At least for today.)
No shit, Sherlock, I'm thinking. And seething. All the while attempting to preserve an air of icy dignity and resignation. I came here tonight to break up. Or be broken up with. That is how any reasonable human would interpret the events preceding. And I would prefer to get this over with and go home to lick my wounds with a brownie (or twelve) in bed.
We begin to tenderly negotiate the terms of our talk. He admits to resistance. I admit to various tactics of self-preservation. He is not one to only "sort of" show up, he says. Sure fooled me, I say.
He continues to circumnavigate. I continue to steel myself for the inevitable. We are discussing the awkwardness of halfway, of half-assed, of flying half mast. It is too.... "Nebulous." I complete his sentence. Expediency is key. "Exactly," he says. Here it comes. "What we've been doing . . ." he starts, and I fire back with, "It's basically book club with semi-weekly sex."
For a second, I think I have offended him. But he laughs. And I laugh. We are laughing. The waitress comes and pours our chilled Cynar and we are still laughing when she plunks down a teapot and two saucers and goes back inside. Tender green leaves, damp from the evening drizzle, are waving over the wall of St. Pat's. It is chilly and we are outside the café, for the quiet. I must hear every word of this rejection.
I wrap my hands around the wrought iron teapot. It is too hot to hold, but the warm is good. I feel rooted now. My hands have someplace to be. "I guess what I'm saying is . . ." I turn to face him, my fingertips scalded, clutching the potful of chamomile rooibos and trying to look casual.
"I want to try and embrace this. For real."
Wait. Really? "I'm . . . surprised. That is not what I expected you to say."
"Me neither."
And—just like that—it's Spring.
(And the world is mud-luscious, puddle wonderful. At least for today.)
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4 comments:
Don't let the bitches get you down friend. And if he keeps jerking you around, go through with what you intended. You're strong.
I do wish I was there to make you a margarita, I certainly owe you one.
Well, that sounds lovely (and I hope he gets his sorry-ass shit together).
Remember, it's not all up to him. Don't settle for less than what you want.
Dude. Nice. Mud-puddle warm and happy indeed. Pleasant surprises, steeling oneself, makes life feel like a romantic comedy. It's a nice change from Russian play.
xo
S-O
And yeah, why not, cu3 there are worse things than semi-weekly sex and book club.
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