Once Upon A Time . . .
. . . there was a friendship, a dilemma, a sort-of-friendship, another dilemma, and a not-so-friendly-friendship.
I've been racking my brain for almost a year now, simply over this friendship and dilemma conflict. I think I've finally figured it out. And because I'm finally posting it, I'm now able to drop what needs to be dropped and move forward. So . . . here we go:
I would always wonder why this friendship never really worked out right. You see, it always worked out just to the brink of being right, but it never pushed itself all the way. In reflection, I'm pretty sure I never really wanted it to go all the way.
I guess this story really is more Tarantino style than anything else. I cannot just begin at, well, the beginning, because the beginning is far too important. We'll have to back-track a bit, and take a few detours. And would you look at that! Irony sets in as the story commences in a coffee shop with a girl who claims her favorite movie is indeed the Quentin Tarantino classic, Pulp Fiction . . .
No, you can't.
"We were probably just at two different places, doing different things: you had your . . . depression thing to deal with, and I was off doing what I did." Valerie's tone projected some sort of gratification in her words. Although, it was only her tone that seemed at ease and satisfied. Her figity body language told of something contrary.
"Yeah," I said, letting my thoughts trail, . . . She is always trying to explain everything! Have we ever thought that maybe, just maybe, there were things in this world that didn't NEED explanation?! . . . Without a second lost, I came back into the conversation with, "We were just at two different places. I'm glad it's over though. So, do you think we'll ever get refills?"
I pointed to our cups that now only contained ice and a few traces of that brown-ish coke stuff. That was, by the way, an attempt to change the subject. I noticed that this always failed, and not in the conventional way either. She didn't retort with, "I see what you're trying to do. You're trying to change the subject!" No. She did none of that. She was the "not-able-to-hide-emotions" type. It's actually a medical term. Look it up.
She rested her right wrist on the table and picked up a spoon. She began tapping the napkin it laid upon and simultaneously turned her head to the left gazing out the east window. Her eyes sort of glazed over with the display of irritation. About the same time she used the spoon as a Morris Code device, she started shaking her left foot, who's leg was crossed over her right knee. She always shook her feet, and so much so as to send the vibration noticably throughout her whole upper body. All the while her face had remained emotionless, save the beady eyes. This had become the typical Trance Of Irritation. It was so unmistakeable that I had become rather unaffected by it. I no longer stopped to ask if she was alright. I was much more interested in continuing my conversation, than dealing with the possible response to the question, Are you mad?
(So, my friends . . . this is a work in progress. Give me some time to finish it . . . and by the looks of it, it's going to be rather long . . . )