I want to have happily moved on from the feelings currently eating me alive.
But everything reminds me of him. It’s gotten to the point that I find myself wondering that since we really do have this much in common, and therefore, as long as I enjoy the kind of music, sport, people, clothes, books and adventures we both do, will he always be a part of me?
(yes, it’s like that…)
Soccer, rap music, cardigan sweaters, absurd comedy, argyle socks, The Cure, cannolis, long drives and Franz Kafka all make me think about him,and smile bittersweetly.
He stalks the shadows of my subconscious, the rafters of my dreams. I am still staggering about underneath the weight of my desire. I have become dazed and half-mad with longing, lurching through life as though in a fog. Things don’t feel real. I feel like I’m living in a different reality.
I’m thinking about calling him today—one of those friendly, “hey! are you alive?” calls. I’m terrified to do it, but I’ve had the strangest urge to do it for ages. I don’t know what I’m expecting out of that.
I don’t know why he still knocks around in my head.
I want to move on. Estoy lista para seguir adelante.
Do you know how exhausted I am? My eyes feel like they’ve been scrubbed raw, and I have to keep them closed because now I’m beginning to hallucinate.Do you realize that this is the absolute worst time to approach a woman— after a full shift of work and three nights of less-than-ideal (e.g. 3 freaking hours!) sleep? So please, if you see me sprawled across three handicapped seats (don’t worry, this is the express; there are no disabled grandmas on this line), do not come to me, ask if I’ll move my swollen feet and then tell me how much you admire my face, hair, eyes, skin or other (less than PG) body parts.
You might end up with less than ten fingers before you reach your stop.
Thanks for well-wishes everybody! I feel a lot better now.
I’ve spent the whole week healing up and watching The IT Crowd and falling in love with Moss (Richard Ayoade is a sexy,sexy man to me, even in Moss’ silly get-ups). As a consequence I came back to work with a psuedo-British accent and a weary smile.
I am currently battling a fierce, unexpected, completely dangerous attraction to one of the attorneys at my job. He is tall and slim, with jet black hair, flawlessly pale skin and huge, huge brown eyes. He has this clear, melodious voice and a shy, sweet manor one-on-one. We run into each other in the kitchen a lot. These kitchens are more like alcoves— near the exits and small, with the door always shut tight. When the appliances are off and you’re all alone in there, you can hear your heart beating.
It’s a delicious place to be caught alone with a hot man.
We started at this job on the same day. When I saw him walk in, I nearly dropped the plate I was holding.
I hate this. I’ve been trying to avoid him in order not to make this worse. I succeeded for nearly two weeks before one morning, he decided to come in for diet soda while I was loading the dishwasher.
We gave each other the awkward work “hey” you give to co-workers you don’t know very well.
He stared at the vending machine a moment and abruptly said, "This has actually been the hardest decision of my day.”
I laughed, nervous.
Don’t drop anything, don’t drop anything, don’t stare at his behind, don’t drop anything.
"I suppose that’s good.” he continued as he turned away from the machine, empty-handed. " That the worst decision you’ve gotta make is what soda to get.”
"I’d say so, but not from experience. I don’t drink the stuff.” My voice sounded foreign to me— a lower pitch than usual and yet more girlish.
"Really?” he said, gracing me with a smile. “Good for you. This stuff is terrible for you, but I’m a bit of an addict. I’m Jeffery, by the way.” he said, extending his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
"Diane.” I said, taking his hand. He has small, pale hands soft with years of education and privilege. Mine are brown and callused and dry from the cleaners they make me use.
"Nice meeting you. “
He left, leaving the scent of affluence after him. I think all wealthy white men wear the same colonge.
Him and I crossed paths again the next week, where he asked me what I was doing over the weekend.
This morning, I ran into him in the hall. I told him I liked his tie. It was a bright cherry red, and undoubtedly silk.
Today, as I was trying to purge him from my mind and reenter the suite, the door opened …. and he was standing on the other side of it.
I felt myself start. I gasped.
"Oh, I’m sorry! excuse me." he said, in a sweet, apologetic tone. He swings the door open and then holds it for me. “We keep meeting like this.” he said, as I smiled sheepishly. He smiled back.
"We do. Thanks.”
He’s….gorgeous. And intelligent. And exceedingly polite. And wealthy. And physically, just my type. My type. My type.
Oh, this is bad. Baby, this is so bad.
I haven’t slept since Monday, not really. Tuesday was the meeting. Yesterday was the concert (which was awesome!). Tonight Brianna came over with hot wings and tales of hot men. Tomorrow I’m going to the lounge with Tara and Sherry. Saturday I’ve got preaching, pho and shopping with A. I know that by Sunday I am going to be a zombie, and there will be nothing I can do about it, because I’m almost certain I have plans then too (and I just can’t remember what they are at the moment). I love being this active, all of the time, but I really need to take a day for myself. I can already feel the culumative exhaustion creeping in.
Transit rides have been cold, rainy, short and quiet without my iPod. I have been taking the bus everywhere in order to keep my word of not putting anymore money into that stupid car. I have to figure out something though, and soon, because Detroit transit is talking about making major cuts, and they all affect the routes I take. I hate that they are talking about cannibalizing a transit system that’s already bare bones. The little they’ve given us in mass transit is terrible, but necessary. I hope to God these cuts do not come to pass.
If they do, a move to a city with better transit and more opportunity sounds in order.I like my job as a dishwasher just fine, but my feet don’t. I can’t continue to walk 15 miles a day, everyday, in office loafers. I will cripple myself.
Just the word “walk” makes my feet ache in psychosomatic pain.
Money is good, but I like sleep better.
Coffee and bad salads and day old bread keep me fed. Books keep me sane. And the daydreaming during my job keeps my heart burning.
I went on a “date” on Saturday with an old friend from high school. We ran into each other when I went uptown to see explosions in the sky. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the money to buy tickets in advance, and by the time I got to the theater, the show was sold out. I had ran into Sam on the street. He was just coming off of his job as a waiter. He grew up to be skinny but handsome, and I was happy to see him. Date is in quotation marks because Sam- who is a perfect gentleman, a kind human being and fun to be around— is gay. Considering the way my love life goes, it seems fitting that my first date with a guy is with a gay man.
"Let me go home and change, and we’ll have some dinner."
I had went to the bookstore in the middle of town to wait for him. It’s about here where I started to feel cold. I thought perhaps the bookstore was cold (because Saturday was unseasonably warm) but I gradually realized with dismay that it was the sick chills.
We decided on sushi. It was my first time having sushi in 10 years. My verdict? Maybe it’s because I was feeling sick, but I didn’t like it. It was too chewy. I had asked him to take me home a bit early and gave him back his sweater as we pulled up to my house.
I came in with a blinding headache, horrible stomach pain and that awful, breath-taking cough I’ve had going on six weeks. I took Nyquil and hit the sack at 8:30.
Sunday was spent chugging Pepto Bismol and Pedialyte and shuffling from the toilet to the bed. Today was along the same lines, though I felt well enough to talk with my parents a couple of hours, chill with Iris and talk on the phone with Brianna. After two days with this awful stomach flu, I’m finally starting to feel like myself again, which is great.
Being sick is isolating. I can’t wait to get back to the rest of my life— going to the gym, playing with my sisters and my brother, going to the Hall, going back to work and going to see Minus the Bear on Wednesday night.