|
2002-01-11 || 5:01 p.m. || lunch time. || there is a lesson in this somewhere. do not decide it would be a nice idea to go out to lunch because you haven't seen him in a while. do not cave in to the whispery voices of conversations past, of 'i miss you too's and 'we should hang out soon's. do not get into a car that is playing very beautiful stephin merritt songs that you have never heard before, 'maria maria maria' in particular, because they will forever be encapsulated in this lunchtime memory, forever assciated with the red car with bothersome seat belts. do not suggest driving to the marina because you want to run down the pier and back, fuck lunch, because he will give you a look and pretend not to hear you and keep looking for parking spots downtown. do not settle into a table with seats across from each other because you find you have difficulty making eye contact. you don't know where your voice went. it is obvious the two of you have no idea how to communicate on this level, this every day lunch time friendly level, surrounded by businessmen and students and people who just feel like staring, which is manifested in silences that fall all over your thai noodles and make you lose your appetite. do not let his presence twist your words around, flip every sentence upside down so that they end upturned and stubborn like invasive questions. don't ask what he's doing for the weekend because it'll only make you suspicious and jealous, and you have no ideas when these feelings came into play. the dark ugly ones. the ones that are hanging on your face like wrinkles and flush reflected in shiny napkin dispensers. don't try to smile when you feel like crying because you're just not good at hiding your feelings. when he gets up to go to the bathroom do not try to analyze the situation, the possible odd couplings of stiimulus/response: did he say something? did he look at you funny? is it just that he is not sweeping the dishes off the table, wiping away stray pad thai from his mouth and attempting to hump you right there in the restaurant? is that it? is it because you have planned this down to the getting out of the car and walking back to the office and it wasn't supposed to turn out this way, not with all the awkwardness, the disconnecting brushes of hips, the hovering funny feeling when he has driven you back to work with three minutes to spare, that damn maria song still playing, and it is quite obvious he isn't going to make any sort of move to kiss you? don't think about it after you've gotten back to work. don't stand in the bathroom in front of the mirror and watch your face as you get mad and embarrassed and start to cry, taking purely curious interest in the way blotches of red appear on your forehead and cheeks, the way your eyes appear purple, the way your mouth makes that funny shape that signifies the blocking of air from lungs. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |