Being single.
It was Tuesday night and I sat on the bench outside Starbucks with my knees pulled up to my chest, taking note of the people approaching the cafe and half-listening to the music which happened to be shitty. We're talking jazz and James Taylor here, and not his good stuff, although a decent French song came on which occupied me with an attempt at translation. But I probably looked a little lost and lonely, sitting there wearing socks and sandals.
People walking in the cafe looked at me oddly, or otherwise checked me out. For a few, I gave proposing that they sit with me--perhaps have something to drink and chat about the vagaries of life, esp. my particular situation--real consideration. That might've come off as needy, though, and I was perfectly self-sufficient, just waiting and watching, wondering what had happened. I'd determined when to get up, and I did at that time, surveying the scene that I might have missed someone. I hadn't. I got something to drink, listened to some opera on the car radio and left.
Afterwards, I wasn't really even mad that you didn't call or show up, but only pretended to be when it was convenient. One would expect to be indignant at being utterly stood up. I wasn't though, and I don't think that reflects a paucity of respect for myself, or an underestimation of my self-worth, because I was perfectly assured of myself. I remember that happy girl who rang up my chai latte, counseling me like I was hurt, that "it's never you...it's always them," and of course I already knew that.
People walking in the cafe looked at me oddly, or otherwise checked me out. For a few, I gave proposing that they sit with me--perhaps have something to drink and chat about the vagaries of life, esp. my particular situation--real consideration. That might've come off as needy, though, and I was perfectly self-sufficient, just waiting and watching, wondering what had happened. I'd determined when to get up, and I did at that time, surveying the scene that I might have missed someone. I hadn't. I got something to drink, listened to some opera on the car radio and left.
Afterwards, I wasn't really even mad that you didn't call or show up, but only pretended to be when it was convenient. One would expect to be indignant at being utterly stood up. I wasn't though, and I don't think that reflects a paucity of respect for myself, or an underestimation of my self-worth, because I was perfectly assured of myself. I remember that happy girl who rang up my chai latte, counseling me like I was hurt, that "it's never you...it's always them," and of course I already knew that.