(no subject)
Wilson played the pronoun game, and he played it well. He couldn't think I didn't notice. Cameron told me about the first time; the sort of strangled sound in her voice and the worry in her eyes when she told me about their exchange told me a whole lot more than her carefully chosen words did. Her words had told me about Wilson cheating on his wife with "someone" who made him feel special, while her eyes wanted to know if it was me. I hadn't told her anything that day, explicitly or not, although there wasn't anything to tell. But the way Wilson played the game with me, talking about my imaginary hooker and leaving the gender dangling. What did that show? An interest? Or was it just a slip on his part? Freud would have been having a field day with Wilson at that point. He was depressed, avoidant, and slightly masochistic. Maybe he told himself he was playing the martyr. He was the suffering saint and I was the heathen to whom he was bringing his friendship, his own brand of fucked-up piety. He did the dishes, he cooked dinner, he waited on the steps for me to be done with my imaginary hooker. I wanted to know when he decided I needed his sideways pity. He was the one I felt sorry for, him and his soon-to-be ex-wife and his pronouns. If he didn't know what he meant, how could I?