(no subject)
I haven't written here in ages. Actually, I haven't written in ages... But I had to get this down and I know the two or three people who may still read this are the only people who could understand this.
I woke up in his bed. His new bed is a huge marshmallow beast. He's so proud to finally have a bed. (He was living on a futon mattress on the floor for years.) 7:30am and the alarm was going off. He snoozed it several times and then told me he had to get up. So I rolled over (hot skin) and kissed him on the cheek. He got up, rummaging for clothes to wear, wondering whether his jeans are too nice to go hiking in, and I was perched on the end of the bed (legs dangling, pouting) when I noticed "Lolita" on the floor next to his bed. Why does he have my favorite book on the floor next to his bed! I laughed. He told me I could stay there after he had left. So I lay in his bed, and read the first several sections (Annotated copy) before the story starts. When I realized my phone was running out of batteries and that I would probably never leave that spot, I got up and made the bed.
...
I shouldn't have looked.
His collection of books is small (recently moved) but it is perfect. I have never seen something so cohesive and tidy. It broke my heart. His bookshelves were lined with Nabokov, Dostoevsky, and countless other poetry and short fiction anthologies (Stevens, Frost, Larkin). He likes to read poetry on the bus- on his way to work where he does economic analysis. Why do you have to be so freaking smart. I should have known(./ )I shouldn't have looked.
Now things will never be the same. Whatever predicament we were in before is now completely amplified. I like you. //No you don't. Both of us. Why do we say that? Does he like me? He doesn't want a relationship, and I believed I could change his mind, believing that he would soon learn that not all girls argue all the time, or cry all the time, are needy all the time. Who am I to change your mind? His intellect eclipses mine and now, as if I didn't before, I will always idealize him. Why did I look? I suppose in any ordinary circumstance, it wouldn't matter. But his mother is a professor of education. His father used to be a clinical psychologist. What does he do now? I should know. Is he a writer? I forget... But really, what did I expect? It's funny that he's the one who inspired me to write after at least a year of NOTHING.
This time, I shouldn't have looked. It broke my heart.
I wanted to write him a note. There was no paper. But he has a journal, from his travels in Europe. I didn't leave a note...
And then I walked out of his house. It was the most glorious day: sun shining, cool breeze. It hasn't been this nice out in MONTHS. Adams morgan was sleeping for the most part from the previous night's debauchery, but there was a small market set up, where neighbors were greeting one another, people were out walking their dogs, and there were people playing tennis. There were a few cafes open, one with sidewalk seating. I loved that he gave me the independence to leave his house on my own, but craved the domesticity of breakfast together- sitting outside on a sunny, breezy day, holding hands over coffee, recounting the week's events, exchanging stories over the gooey egg centers and the cheerful spritz of grapefruits, sitting in silence as we both listen to the bits of conversations wafting over from neighboring tables, trying to guess people's relationships, sharing what we learned. And now, I'm not sure if that will ever happen. I passed the tables misty-eyed.
I wish I knew what this will or will not become, because obviously I care too much already to let this hang in the air like a last spoken word, waiting for a response.
I woke up in his bed. His new bed is a huge marshmallow beast. He's so proud to finally have a bed. (He was living on a futon mattress on the floor for years.) 7:30am and the alarm was going off. He snoozed it several times and then told me he had to get up. So I rolled over (hot skin) and kissed him on the cheek. He got up, rummaging for clothes to wear, wondering whether his jeans are too nice to go hiking in, and I was perched on the end of the bed (legs dangling, pouting) when I noticed "Lolita" on the floor next to his bed. Why does he have my favorite book on the floor next to his bed! I laughed. He told me I could stay there after he had left. So I lay in his bed, and read the first several sections (Annotated copy) before the story starts. When I realized my phone was running out of batteries and that I would probably never leave that spot, I got up and made the bed.
...
I shouldn't have looked.
His collection of books is small (recently moved) but it is perfect. I have never seen something so cohesive and tidy. It broke my heart. His bookshelves were lined with Nabokov, Dostoevsky, and countless other poetry and short fiction anthologies (Stevens, Frost, Larkin). He likes to read poetry on the bus- on his way to work where he does economic analysis. Why do you have to be so freaking smart. I should have known(./ )I shouldn't have looked.
Now things will never be the same. Whatever predicament we were in before is now completely amplified. I like you. //No you don't. Both of us. Why do we say that? Does he like me? He doesn't want a relationship, and I believed I could change his mind, believing that he would soon learn that not all girls argue all the time, or cry all the time, are needy all the time. Who am I to change your mind? His intellect eclipses mine and now, as if I didn't before, I will always idealize him. Why did I look? I suppose in any ordinary circumstance, it wouldn't matter. But his mother is a professor of education. His father used to be a clinical psychologist. What does he do now? I should know. Is he a writer? I forget... But really, what did I expect? It's funny that he's the one who inspired me to write after at least a year of NOTHING.
This time, I shouldn't have looked. It broke my heart.
I wanted to write him a note. There was no paper. But he has a journal, from his travels in Europe. I didn't leave a note...
And then I walked out of his house. It was the most glorious day: sun shining, cool breeze. It hasn't been this nice out in MONTHS. Adams morgan was sleeping for the most part from the previous night's debauchery, but there was a small market set up, where neighbors were greeting one another, people were out walking their dogs, and there were people playing tennis. There were a few cafes open, one with sidewalk seating. I loved that he gave me the independence to leave his house on my own, but craved the domesticity of breakfast together- sitting outside on a sunny, breezy day, holding hands over coffee, recounting the week's events, exchanging stories over the gooey egg centers and the cheerful spritz of grapefruits, sitting in silence as we both listen to the bits of conversations wafting over from neighboring tables, trying to guess people's relationships, sharing what we learned. And now, I'm not sure if that will ever happen. I passed the tables misty-eyed.
I wish I knew what this will or will not become, because obviously I care too much already to let this hang in the air like a last spoken word, waiting for a response.