Why I had a strange night.
I didn't really like the idea of going home after work today. So, instead, I went to a coffee house- Theo's in Rock Island, for those of you who live nearby. I ordered a chai and a turkey and cheddar sandwich on a sourdough roll. I sat down. I consumed, trying in the meantime to read some more of "The Lucifer Principle." I look up.
Across the room, sitting at a circular table near the rear of the back of the restaurant, was a woman. She had dark hair, unlikely-black, just barely beyond shoulder length. The line of her jaw, the outline of her face, the curve of her neck, looked like some work of art; expanding outwards, the rest of her seemed to follow the pattern, like she's a statue of a goddess from an ancient, dead civilization. An alabaster idol, unearthed after ages have washed away all memory of her lost world. Soft, all, curved gently. I could see from across the room that her eyes were a sharp bluish-purple that I didn't know happened in eyes outside of anime. She had an eyebrow piercing, but her ears were whole. She was wearing some severe, black, Buddy Holly glasses-frames, with no glass in them, that she pushed up repeatedly. Loose-ish carpenter pants, a black tank top over a white t-shirt that looked like it had a logo on it, red dollar-store shoes. She's drinking what looks like hot chocolate. She's reading Hume's "Treatise of Human Nature," ragged blue hardcover, and tapping a pencil on an empty notebook.
I push back a crisis of breath.
In my head, I walk over to her table. I see you're reading Hume. "I see you're literate." Hume is bullshit. She almost does a spit-take. "Excuse me?" Hume is bullshit. "Oh, really?" Yes. "How?" Because subjectivism states that some things aren't affected by the observer's perspective, and that conflicts with elementary school science.
Debate ensues. The restaurant ends up closing, and we proceed outside, chatting about whatever the conversation strayed to. Her name is Amelia. She's 21. She wears contact lenses under the fake glasses, and, yes, she swears, her eyes are really this color. She plays piano, and used to sing in High School. She bets me she can kick my ass at Mortal Kombat; I bet her she's right. She knows who Stabbing Westward is, and says she broke her first copy of Darkest Days and had to buy another. It's 2:30, suddenly, and I have work tomorrow, erm, today. She gives me a kiss, and tells me to meet her at Theo's again after work, gets in her fake-wood-paneled hatchback wagon and drives off. I go home, pass out, work, rinse, lather, repeat.
Next day is beautiful. She reads some of the Rollins I brought. We talk about our ideas of what love and romance is. I prove to her that the right kind of solipsism is romantic. I almost choke on my water when she makes some joke about sex on the second date. I ask, We're dating? Why wasn't I informed? She scrunches her face and kicks my leg really hard.
She reads Douglas Adams, EA Poe, Shakespeare, Terry Pratchett, and really thinks I should read King's "The Dragon's Eye" before I say the Dark Tower series is so great. She has a problem with the fact that she listens to MP3s of Mozart, and I tell her that it's because Bach is better. Glare. She likes 80s music, and does the Safety Dance at random, and often inappropriate, times. She thinks Massive Attack should compose the new National Anthem. She thinks Dream for an Insomniac is the greatest romantic comedy "EVAR!!!11" and that Pi is terrible- I tell her that her opinion of Pi doesn't count because she didn't like Edward Scissorhands.
Rinse, lather, repeat. Third night. Meet at Theo's after work. We exchange phone numbers and emails. We go to see Goodbye Lenin. She holds my hand, smiles at me as I notice. Fourth night, we meet at Riefe's and eat- she's a lapsed vegitarian-slash-Catholic, eats a steak bigger than my head. We go down to the riverside and watch the moon from a large towel. We talk. Intimacy.
Time passes, as time is wont to do. A month later, most of my time is spent at her eclectically-decorated efficiency apartment. She's taking classes at Ambrose, majoring in journalism. She gets money doing freelance writing. No small amount of our time is spent *ahem* relaxing. We write letters to one another. Go to a lot of movies, lots of dining out. When I have a philosophical idea, I tell her, and she listens, and asks questions, and nods, and smiles, and at the end she says "Bullshit" and kisses me. I learn about her past. She grew up with her father, middle child. Her last- and thus far only- boyfriend was a stupid dick she had a crush on in high school. Cheated on her. She's clinically depressed, and has Tried.
Another two months. Three, four. Tough season at work begins. 12, 13-hour days. She seems to get uncomfortable around me, doesn't talk as much. When I bring it up, she acts happy, says "Nothing," and continues about whatever she was doing. Once, we fight, over a dish I forgot. Then, about not getting an internet bill paid. Then, about her having to borrow money from her father.
Come home one day. "What's that on your collar?" What? "That red. On your collar." I look, and tell her, blood. "Oh?" Yes. "Whose?" Umm... Mine? I hold up a cut hand. "Oh." Look, I'm not cheating on you. I couldn't. Infidelity is just inconcievable for me, and I think you know that. You don't have to worry. "Okay." Hugs, and sleep.
13-hour Saturday. Covered in sweat, tired as all hell. "Where were you?" Work. "For 13 hours?" Isn't the first time. She snaps. Tells me I'm cheating on her, that I'm a liar. That I'm no worse than any other man. That I'm stupid and irresponsible and pointless. And I need to leave. She can't put up with me anymore.
I go.
I call her three times the next day. No answer. Again, the next. Nothing.
I drive by her building, put a letter in her mailbox. Telling her that she was wrong, but I still loved her, and how I couldn't do any of those things to her. That she was more than I'd ever asked for. That, if she didn't trust me, I couldn't be the one for her, and that she deserved somebody better. I never heard from her again.
Back in the coffee shop, I catch my breath, swallow. I stand, dispose of the used dishes, and leave the restaurant.
-N
Across the room, sitting at a circular table near the rear of the back of the restaurant, was a woman. She had dark hair, unlikely-black, just barely beyond shoulder length. The line of her jaw, the outline of her face, the curve of her neck, looked like some work of art; expanding outwards, the rest of her seemed to follow the pattern, like she's a statue of a goddess from an ancient, dead civilization. An alabaster idol, unearthed after ages have washed away all memory of her lost world. Soft, all, curved gently. I could see from across the room that her eyes were a sharp bluish-purple that I didn't know happened in eyes outside of anime. She had an eyebrow piercing, but her ears were whole. She was wearing some severe, black, Buddy Holly glasses-frames, with no glass in them, that she pushed up repeatedly. Loose-ish carpenter pants, a black tank top over a white t-shirt that looked like it had a logo on it, red dollar-store shoes. She's drinking what looks like hot chocolate. She's reading Hume's "Treatise of Human Nature," ragged blue hardcover, and tapping a pencil on an empty notebook.
I push back a crisis of breath.
In my head, I walk over to her table. I see you're reading Hume. "I see you're literate." Hume is bullshit. She almost does a spit-take. "Excuse me?" Hume is bullshit. "Oh, really?" Yes. "How?" Because subjectivism states that some things aren't affected by the observer's perspective, and that conflicts with elementary school science.
Debate ensues. The restaurant ends up closing, and we proceed outside, chatting about whatever the conversation strayed to. Her name is Amelia. She's 21. She wears contact lenses under the fake glasses, and, yes, she swears, her eyes are really this color. She plays piano, and used to sing in High School. She bets me she can kick my ass at Mortal Kombat; I bet her she's right. She knows who Stabbing Westward is, and says she broke her first copy of Darkest Days and had to buy another. It's 2:30, suddenly, and I have work tomorrow, erm, today. She gives me a kiss, and tells me to meet her at Theo's again after work, gets in her fake-wood-paneled hatchback wagon and drives off. I go home, pass out, work, rinse, lather, repeat.
Next day is beautiful. She reads some of the Rollins I brought. We talk about our ideas of what love and romance is. I prove to her that the right kind of solipsism is romantic. I almost choke on my water when she makes some joke about sex on the second date. I ask, We're dating? Why wasn't I informed? She scrunches her face and kicks my leg really hard.
She reads Douglas Adams, EA Poe, Shakespeare, Terry Pratchett, and really thinks I should read King's "The Dragon's Eye" before I say the Dark Tower series is so great. She has a problem with the fact that she listens to MP3s of Mozart, and I tell her that it's because Bach is better. Glare. She likes 80s music, and does the Safety Dance at random, and often inappropriate, times. She thinks Massive Attack should compose the new National Anthem. She thinks Dream for an Insomniac is the greatest romantic comedy "EVAR!!!11" and that Pi is terrible- I tell her that her opinion of Pi doesn't count because she didn't like Edward Scissorhands.
Rinse, lather, repeat. Third night. Meet at Theo's after work. We exchange phone numbers and emails. We go to see Goodbye Lenin. She holds my hand, smiles at me as I notice. Fourth night, we meet at Riefe's and eat- she's a lapsed vegitarian-slash-Catholic, eats a steak bigger than my head. We go down to the riverside and watch the moon from a large towel. We talk. Intimacy.
Time passes, as time is wont to do. A month later, most of my time is spent at her eclectically-decorated efficiency apartment. She's taking classes at Ambrose, majoring in journalism. She gets money doing freelance writing. No small amount of our time is spent *ahem* relaxing. We write letters to one another. Go to a lot of movies, lots of dining out. When I have a philosophical idea, I tell her, and she listens, and asks questions, and nods, and smiles, and at the end she says "Bullshit" and kisses me. I learn about her past. She grew up with her father, middle child. Her last- and thus far only- boyfriend was a stupid dick she had a crush on in high school. Cheated on her. She's clinically depressed, and has Tried.
Another two months. Three, four. Tough season at work begins. 12, 13-hour days. She seems to get uncomfortable around me, doesn't talk as much. When I bring it up, she acts happy, says "Nothing," and continues about whatever she was doing. Once, we fight, over a dish I forgot. Then, about not getting an internet bill paid. Then, about her having to borrow money from her father.
Come home one day. "What's that on your collar?" What? "That red. On your collar." I look, and tell her, blood. "Oh?" Yes. "Whose?" Umm... Mine? I hold up a cut hand. "Oh." Look, I'm not cheating on you. I couldn't. Infidelity is just inconcievable for me, and I think you know that. You don't have to worry. "Okay." Hugs, and sleep.
13-hour Saturday. Covered in sweat, tired as all hell. "Where were you?" Work. "For 13 hours?" Isn't the first time. She snaps. Tells me I'm cheating on her, that I'm a liar. That I'm no worse than any other man. That I'm stupid and irresponsible and pointless. And I need to leave. She can't put up with me anymore.
I go.
I call her three times the next day. No answer. Again, the next. Nothing.
I drive by her building, put a letter in her mailbox. Telling her that she was wrong, but I still loved her, and how I couldn't do any of those things to her. That she was more than I'd ever asked for. That, if she didn't trust me, I couldn't be the one for her, and that she deserved somebody better. I never heard from her again.
Back in the coffee shop, I catch my breath, swallow. I stand, dispose of the used dishes, and leave the restaurant.
-N