Dear Jon -
I imagine that this will be something of a long post. First, we spoke twice today. And second, I realized last night, after stating I was going to bed and instead reading through the entirety of this blog again in a fit of unexpected masochism, that I never actually blogged about what happened on Wednesday of last week. I don't want to call it "that night" because "that night" is the night I wore orange and you got me high against my will and we didn't sleep together. I've already been referring to it as "our late night," and I suppose that will suffice. But for now, today.
I was hardly in the office, with so many errands to run. When I came back in the afternoon, you were sitting at my station, with your things on top of my closed laptop, doing your thing. I was a) startled to see you, b) filled with love and familiarity that you were in my area, and c) ashamed at the inconvenience I had caused, taking that space and then not being present.
I had a client, then came out and saw you again (in your green polo with the collar turned up over brown thermal with the sleeves rolled up); you were carrying your weathered leather notepad, looking like a beat poet on his way to the cafe. I was going to my car to get a 2:30 lunch, and asked if you were coming out. You said, "sure," as if I had interrupted by inviting you, and when I asked if you were put upon, you said that you weren't quite ready, but would come anyway. What to make of that?
Our first cigarette conversation:
You offered me one of yours; I declined. I made you walk with me to my car, questioning my motives because I mostly expect I declined the offer because I didn't want to accept anything from you (not to be beholden? afraid to get tangibly closer? I'm not sure yet).
Our whole conversation felt as if it was one of those fake conversations I have with my clients as I am walking down the hall before we have a real conversation after the door is closed. Do you understand?
I think we talked weather, my interview for next year's position, the spring banquet. And then I got you. I said, "And the other thing is..." I paused long enough to make you uncomfortable. You shifted back on your heels (dreading? ready and expecting? relieved to have it over with?). "And the other thing is, on my annual self eval..." and I told you of the drama I am anticipating with that. But I got you, Jon! I saw it. And it wasn't even intentional.
Our second cigarette conversation:
After I got back to the office (again) at 5, and busied myself catching up on paperwork for half an hour, you came in (again) and startled me. Every time I see you, it seems my heart pounds insatiably. In any case, we sat with our backs to each other, less than three feet away, and worked (in my case, breathlessly). I packed up and said I was going home, and you agreed and asked if I'd like to smoke first. You went to the bathroom, I dropped off my Netflix envelope in the mailbox, we reconvened at your car. This time, you insisted I take a cigarette (to regain some of what you'd lost by my refusal? to feel tangibly closer?).
We talked about work, meaning, responsibility. This seemed like a closer conversation to something real. I told you the story of why I quit reading tarot professionally. I know you love my stories, and I love telling them, because I am so visual and use my hands to paint the picture. You watch, rapt, and you laugh at the right places, and your eyes watch my eyes when they're not looking back at you. Oh, Jon, so lovely, to feel your gaze as I am weaving words for you...
It was awkward, our parting. They always are. "Have a good night." "I'll see you tomorrow." Then, as I drive by, the longing look from you, and the hand up in acknowledgment, never in a wave.
I wanted to blast music and drive too fast, but I didn't. I sat quietly at the light, not daring to let my eyes wander toward the rear-view mirror.
.
And now the story of our late night:
There was the txting, of course, which you'll find here below. Then I showered and shaved my underarms and legs and plucked my eyebrows and straightened my hair and put on makeup and selected a beautiful matching bra and panty set and wore a shirt that would show some cleavage. I was drunk, yes, and about to get more drunk, as I drove and picked up a six pack before showing up at your house (after driving past twice, not sure it was really yours).
You opened the door and invited me in. Your little cat was there - not black, as I imagined, but white and grey. You offered me wine, we settled on beer instead. Your little cat served his distracting purpose, for a while. Then it was side reels of half-real conversations - your high school yearbooks, old poetry of yours.
Jon, your poetry... I wish it was terrible, so I could move on and never look back, but it dripped with meaning and pain and all the reasons I have ever set pen to paper with moisture at the corners of my eyes. It's beautiful, Jon. And you're beautiful.
I got drunker. You smoked some pot. You recited your poetry for me, I recited a few of yours to you. Eventually, eventually, in a haze I said that I had posted the missed connection and you had missed it and that I have feelings for you which won't die no matter how many times I try to poison them and then, at 3 am, so late, you told me that you couldn't be with me, and something about being friends should be enough, but I'm not sure I heard that last bit correctly.
I drove home, my honor and marriage still intact, if not my dignity. I felt incredibly stupid taking off my push-up bra when I got home.
It wasn't like my fantasy. At first, actually, surprisingly, it was. But the fantasy always ended when it got to the real part, and I don't know if we got to the real part on our late night. I never feel like you're being real with me, just painfully reflecting something real at me. Do you hear me, Jon? You're a false leveler. You fake intimacy because you long for intimacy and you're terrified of intimacy.
I could go on accusing you for hours, but this is already too long of a post, and I need to lay down and try not to think about you as I desperately look for sleep so I can appear somewhat rested in our meeting tomorrow morning. I think I'll preemptively take an ibuprofen to avoid the neck pain of avoiding your face.
Goodnight, Jon. I hope you are sleeping well. Some part of me hopes that you are thinking of me as you lie in bed waiting for tomorrow.
- M.
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