Labor Day Party

My boss is overseas, but he wanted to set up a VERY IMPORTANT MEETING on the phone. We went over times, and it seemed that the best time was Monday 9:00 A.M. I also thought that having this meeting was VERY IMPORTANT, so I masochistically turned down many social opportunities for the purpose of talking over my project with my boss, whose input I genuinely value and to whom I am indebted to for agreeing with me on the project's significance. I made my way to the office at 8AM on Labor Day, prepped for an hour, and waited for another half hour. I did not have his European phone number.

Eventually I emailed him. I didn't hear from him for a while. Eventually I received an email in return.

Marcel,

I apologize. I realized it was Labor Day in America, and didn't think you'd be at the office. We'll have to chat later this week.

thanks!
Boss

Well yes, I thought to myself. I wouldn't be at work, if we hadn't arranged a meeting during this time.

Fucking unacceptable.

So, Tuesday was Labor Day for me. I stayed home from work today, for once feeling totally justified because I put in a full day yesterday out of spite. And then I celebrated by eating a lot, sleeping, reading books for pleasure, taking a fantastic bath in front of the television, and catching up with friends. I wouldn't have minded a barbecue, but my celebration was sufficient. It's nice when you can slack off without the guilt.

last week, cooling my jets

Last week was one of the shittier weeks I've had this year. In spite of the insomnia, I had one of the most productive weeks I've ever had at work. Additionally, I might be approaching a peak in physical condition I haven't seen since college sports. But, it was hard to enjoy these things when I could barely keep my head up, and when my exhaustion gave me this filmy pessimism that encroached on everything.

Then I had these three dates. For two of them, I felt tentative and lukewarm about even showing up. One was a girl I dated for a short time, and the other was a labmate from my undergraduate days who had just moved into town. For both, the conversation was fun, there was a lot of laughter, a little touching, the intimation that more time together would be welcome.

I left feeling lukewarm and tentative about ever showing up again.

The third date, with Wendy, was an unmitigated disaster. Of the the three, this was the only one where I thought it could turn into something, maybe. Wendy did not like me, to the point where, after I spent a few minutes with her, I was surprised she had even agreed to come out. Every conversational attempt I made was met with a passivity bordering on hostility. Eventually, I said "fuck it, not worth it" to myself and went home. These things happen. There are whole songs about this cliche, where no one I like is into me, and vice versa.

But, I was left doubting my ability to read people. How could I have possibly thought this woman was interested in me? What makes me think I'm into these people who I don't connect with? Could I think about any specific trait Wendy had that I was particularly drawn to? Then I remembered the infrequency with which I meet people I feel really attracted (beyond physically) too, and the number of times I've gotten myself into trouble from trying to force the issue. So, I figured I'd quit the dating, or at least cool it, for a while. I don't need to be throwing myself at people who aren't worth the time. I've got better things to do, like trying to get seven hours of sleep in a night.

Take it back.

I forgot about how insomnia catches up with you in the long run. Last night, it made a crushing return with feelings of self worthlessness, extreme loneliness that feels like it will be infinite, and defeatism. Tonight it's more of the same, with some head pain thrown in.

Oh, maybe I'll write more next time I'm feeling coherent. Rough couple days. . .professionally, romantically, et al.

Dinner was pleasant.

back to insomnia

Last night I went out with some old friends. Many of them were D.C. friends, some of whom were in town for a couple of days, and others who had given up there and relocated. After we got past the banalities of floor votes, burnt down bars, hawks, doves, Senatorial peccadilloes, and who's staffing who, we mellowed into a low key banter, a dark dive bar, silly jokes and invented dance moves. I went home late.

And woke up at 2:30 in the morning. I was not at all drowsy, feeling the onset of the insomnia I thought I had conquered a couple months ago. Instead of worrying, obsessing on all of the things I might not get down without at least a few hours of rest, I decided to just relax, and use this one productively. I did some low-key work, emailed old friends, drew up an outline for an article I will write someday. After a couple hours of this, my neighbor and friend, Hillary, came out on her porch. She was surprised to see me sitting on mine with my laptop. After a squint-eyed good morning, she said, "Are you up for the eclipse."
She pointed at the moon.
It was pretty nice looking, like someone had dripped caramel all over it. It felt warmer that way.
Hillary went back to bed. Eventually so did I. Today I've been irritable and easily distracted. I've wasted a fair amount of the work day. But that moon was pretty nice looking.

?

I stopped posting here a while ago. I felt like I was wallowing in it. I knew keeping a journal is supposed to be healthy, but I felt like I was using it as a tool for feeding my depressive side, for letting failed expectations run wild in my imagination to the point where they were feeling like the dominant part of my life. Now I'm not sure how to proceed. Part of Marcel Parcells likes scrutinizing these disappointing aspects, zooming in on them and getting closer to how they change my motivations, to why I feel this way or that way. Another part - and perhaps this is the part that believes he can he break horses and canter off into the night, prefers a more detached cynicism, an asshole, go-fuck-yourself, I may care but probably not really, arms length sort of attitude. So. . .where to go with this?

I recently drove across the country. I spent part of the trip mocking southerners, relaxing in the driver's seat, singing along to the worst possible music, and seeing how hot I could make the interior of my car. I spent another part, a large one, thinking a lot about the road trips I used to take with Janet, the most significant of ex-girlfriends, who is now taking trips with a man, who is to my impression, a monomaniacal gearhead athlete of the most boring kind. I called Janet from a lonely campspot in some west Oklahoma grassland, because I had been thinking so much about her I needed to try for contact. This was the first time we have talked in months. It was fun (comfortable), but disappointing, since she was doing that relationship thing where you take on some of the traits of your partner. She talked about scales that measured body fat, hiking twenty miles a day, weighing out your food to the gram, rationing, bear canisters, trekking poles, travel times. I wanted to interrupt the whole time and ask, "When did you play? Did you have any fun? Did you climb some trees, or skip rocks, or bet on which squirrel would lick your peanut butter covered finger?" Instead I just let it go, because for the most part, I ended the relationship, and I hurt her, so if she can be happy with someone I would hate. . .well, good for her.

It's just sad to see someone change for someone else.

newme

For the last week and a half I have been drunk, social, outgoing. I have danced on patios, in living rooms, on the street, and in the back rooms of bars. I have dressed as a “hot cop” and a lecherous mid-life college professor. I have flirted, yelled, broken glasses, grabbed my crotch. In the wake of these bacchanalian barbecues, bluegrass throwdowns, spring time hangovers, tequila brunches, and beer garden escapades, I feel content, to an extent. I have ignored unmindful Miranda, and this is ok. I have been offered a job in a distant desert, and this is great. I have renewed my faith in my ability to impress, to touch a woman’s hand and make her shiver, to grind with the grace of the inebriated, and to play the arrogant asshole, bullying cynic, wide-eyed buffoon, booty shaking glad handing smile man.
I have been drunk for days, and am tired all of the time. I haven’t done work for a week and a half. My eyes are always dry and sleep, though I get it, leaves me tired, cotton-mouthed, bleary. I am really just passing the time, and the nights move faster when the events are blurred by my sleepy, drunken eyes.

My history with Sybil, to date

I meet Sybil in a dive bar, delectably. After hours of conversation, we’ve drunk our blue ribbon beer and eventually begin kicking over tables and chairs. We end up in a vocal fight with some of the regulars. Righteously, they demand we have respect for their bar. We argue that blowing off steam by kicking off some shitty yet sturdy chairs isn’t hurting anyone. Fingers are pointed, voices are raised. Progressively, people get involved until there are several knots of patrons shouting in each others’ faces. It’s like a whirlpool has broken up into several smaller, angry eddies, like when a baseball brawl transitions from one large scrum to several dueling pairs. I am kicked out of the bar and I can’t see Sybil. I walk home.

She and I are at the same party, and drunk again. Everyone’s trading clothing with each other; it’s a melee of garment swapping, and I emerge in orange. I’m wearing a too-tight orange t-shirt that says “I Love Carbs!” on it, orange tube socks, orange underpants, an orange bandana, and two slippers that were made to look like basketballs. Sybil is in red. I dance in my underwear, shaking my luminous ass. It’s raining, but everyone’s outside in socks, flip-flops, slippers, bare feet. Sybil is preparing to attack a piñata. I stand behind her and tie a yellow cummerbund around her head, putting a pair of green swim goggles over it to hold it fast. I’m wondering where all of these accessories came from while Sybil’s assaulting a Paper Mache Spongebob Squarepants with a broomstick. The small crowd cheers when she breaks the broomstick over the piñata, spilling Mexican hard candies and wooden splinters all over the wet sidewalk and lawn. The inevitable scramble ensues, made messier by sodden grass, alcohol, and lustiness. There is more dancing. Before she leaves, I ask for her phone number. She says, ‘oh good, we’re friends now.” I say yes.

I never call.

Sybil is at the coffeehouse, working. I am stretching a sore shoulder, left arm over right clavicle, head pivoted. I see her in the corner, watching me. We talk for a moment and I cut the conversation short with an abrupt goodbye. I return to my table. I wonder if I’ve hurt her feelings.

So I return to her table, using my exit from the shop as an excuse to stop by. This time, I grab the back of a chair, she takes her feet off of it, and I sit down. I am overcaffeinated and am talking in a rapid, attention deficient patter, but she’s laughing, so I’m sticking with it. She smiles appealingly. After a few minutes, I am leaving again. She invites me to her birthday party. I tell her I’ll be there . . .hopefully. Am I being coy? I don’t know.

And then I have these dreams. For an entire night it’s the same dream, or at least variations on the same dream. Sybil is there and she’s holding a four-year-old boy. The boy is my son and I’ve just become cognizant of his existence. I waver between confusion as to how I could have conceived this child, excitement at the prospect of raising my son with Sybil, and apprehension on how we’ll manage this boy, this burden. I wake up exhausted.

Last night, between midnight and five

My success in sleeping was short lived.

Last night between midnight and 5 AM, I
Finished a game of poker with friends, somewhat drunk.
Went home and played online poker.
Watched a rerun of Battlestar Galactica. Took Tylenol PM
Ate a peanut butter sandwich.
Listened to This American Life.
Masturbated. This took a long time.
Ate ramen.
Lay there for a while.
Listened to Meet the Press.
Finally, slept.

sleeping, pills

In the wake of emotional turmoil, physical pain, and my poor living habits, I've had more than enough insomnia recently. I’ve decided to resort to sleep aids in an attempt to resolve the my sleeplessness. Unwilling to deal with doctors and prescriptions, my winning self-prescribed combination has become alcohol and Tylenol PM. Yesterday, I had a visit from an ex-girlfriend, Carrie, who I once believed I would marry. She hurt me grievously last fall.

The visit was short and painful, involving an exchange of possessions and a few quick words. Her cousin waited outside in in the car, and she handed me a letter, calling it a “peace offering.” Reading the tritisms and platitudes that were all she could muster, reading the “I hope things work out for you,” and the “Someday I would like to salvage our friendship,” brought back all of the inconsiderate injuries she’d inflicted on me.

I went out to dinner with friends. I spent most of it staring at the lighting fixtures. Felix told me he was worried about me. I blushed.

I bought a bottle of champagne, went home, and drank it from a mug while watching an awful British movie. I gulped the drink, tried to interpret the cockney accents, and fumed. I took two Tylenol PM and turned on "Meet the Press" to disctract me. It worked. I woke up thirteen hours later feeling dry-mouthed and lightheaded. I was dizzy with grogginess when I woke up. I know enough about my body’s reaction to alcohol to know that the Tylenol was responsible for most of my lethargy. That stuff should be prescription-only, but I’ not complaining.

. . .

I have spent the last three days, lying on my right side, on the old green sheets of my broken-down bed, watching endless episodes of Battlestar Galactica, drinking expensive vodka, and ordering the occasional bacon, pineapple, jalapeno pizza from Papa Johns. I have become morally, physically, emotionally corrupt.
At times, I wish I were one of the few human survivors in the aftermath of a robot-induced holocaust. I think that might force me to feel invested in something.

begin again

OK, fuck it. This is bullshit. I stayed home today and watched the SciFi channel. I have been doing this all weekend. I can't make it far enough to hope for real love or romance, or good friends. Instead invent frustrating roof parties and post-sex rejection from Albertine.
I watch television. I am lonely. I would prefer the roof time and Albertine's bull shit to another night of this.
Now I’m drunk and medicated. I am going to watch tv until I pass out. I’m going to need to start his shit over.

on the roof, II

I'm on the roof again, and this time drunk with friends, and Gretel has this song, “Chick Habit”, on repeat, she's avoiding the work she has to do and swinging her long limbs around like a go-go dancer, and as the staccato guitar riff bangs out from inside the window, her arms pump and her legs bend her into a half crouch. She is rarely this attractive. While I watch her I laugh a little, and Maggie and Branson cuddle on the other side of our tarred porch, despite her absent boyfriend and his complexes, despite my, “that girl is trouble” (to him) and my “stay away from my roommate” to her. They are cuddling and I am tired, and Gretel is keeping me entertained, but I go inside anyway and say to myself, "that is weird". I take a pill that has not been prescribed to me. It is an anxiety pill. I turn my computer on to a this American life episode from 1998, and listen to other peoples' failures until they are added to mine and are weighing on me. Other peoples' lives. I have too much empathy tonight. My anti-anxiety pill might be fighting valiantly against this rising tide of worry, but not to the right extent. I turn off the radio, and wonder if Maggie will leave tonight.

Chapter Ends

Well, the book may now be closed on Albertine. And that’s fine, as my constant emotional pendulum swings, silences, depressions, and breakdowns were getting a little tiresome. “Just friends” means I can now give it up.
Which leaves me feeling a little empty, to be honest. Not empty in that I feel lovelorn, not like a vessel in need of filling. More like a vacuum. I feel like my emotional state is now subdued, and like I could use something new to care intensely about. Even Steven is fine, but that loses its flavor quickly. I mean, there are baths, and coffee shops, and books, but these feel more like means of pleasantly filling time, and not like passions. And there is my work, but you can only love that so much. While it’s pleasant to feel like I’m not on the verge of tears half the time, I’m also not on the edge of ebullience. Perhaps I should start drinking, or knitting. . .

No, I’m sure something will come along. Some depression-inciting anticipation, the promise of tenuous meaning and lifelong fulfillment will reemerge. It always does.

message

A telephone call was made, with a message, not too pressing, but not overly casual, and now I'm waiting for a response. I feel like those scientists who send signals into space, hoping for some extraterrestrial to signal back. Sometimes, I believe I have about the same chances, too.

yo-yo

If I had any illusions that going to Albertine’s party would be good for me peace of mind, they are now dispelled. The party was fantastic. I felt that I received special attention from her. We had inside jokes and she would tell stories about me to her friends, like a proud girlfriend should I guess that was the tough part. I looked good. I was funny. I was intelligent. We had rapport. I felt like she wanted me (but I’ve felt this before). Then, at the end of the night, while the other lat guest was in the bathroom, I said,
“So. . .I’ll see you . . .sometime.”
She said, “Absolutely,” with the kind of surety that made me feel like she wanted to, like she wanted to be with me, like her ex-boyfriend was beginning to decrease, and I was experiencing a corresponding increase.
I rode home with that “absolutely” in my mind. I couldn’t sleep on Saturday night because of that word. Instead I went back through the night, replaying jokes, looks, glances, the movement of people through the room, her tendency to remain close to me. I tried not to make any conjecture. I tried not to embellish.
Since then I’ve been waiting, a little anxiously, for something from her, a small sign that I would see her again soon. It’s only been thirty-six hours. I have no patience. Today is her real birthday, so I sent her a short email. No plans, no questions, just “Happy actual birthday. Celebrate with some dark chocolate.” I am terrified of coming on too strong. At the same time, I need an answer, a reply. Until then, I am incapacitated.

Social calendar

Albertine is having a small party tonight. I am invited, and I am attending, and I am nervous. I am trying to manage my expectations, to keep them at zero, since what I really want is to go and have fun and be entertaining to strangers and everything more complicated than that is inconsequential.
These are the questions I ask and answer:
What do I think will happen there? Who knows.

What do I want to happen there? I am not sure.
I am trying to convince myself of these answers. I tell myself these things to assuage my nerves.
I try to remember that I have great power. I avoid consulting my horoscope.

Earlier today, I went to a barbecue at a friend’s house. Everyone was married, with children, with yards and freestanding houses. The talk frequently swayed to household projects, baby details, and “how’s work?” While I do know that Albertine’s party could be fairly painful and awkward, I do know that it will be more interesting than this barbecue, and I am thankful for this. I would rather be tortured by Albertine than made to feel out of step with my peers at another interminable barbecue.

today's the day

Once every few weeks or so, I decide that “today’s the day” I will begin to live my life assiduously and fully. The assumption is that every day after that will follow, like that first day just provides the catalyst for some perpetual chemical reaction. My “today’s the day” decision involves several criteria, including improving my exercise regimen and diet, working harder, watching less television, and basically not doing any of the things I regularly do that make me feel guilty, such as going to 7-Eleven for taquitos at two in the morning, watching television until even later, masturbating to the kind of pornography that makes me feel dirty afterward, and being shy in social situations. Once in a while, after I’ve made this promise to myself, I last a day or two before slipping back into my typical behavior. While I always fail eventually, the hours in which I judge myself as virtuous make me feel like I have the great power that the I Ching told me I could have.
So, today’s the day, and this time I’m going to make it last. I’m going to bend like a reed in the wind, but never break, I’m going to be superhuman, superego, Superman, leaping buildings and working like a titan and at least, when I make the inevitable mistake, I will leave a me-shaped hole in the wall. I will go down swinging. I may fall to the ground, but I will get up off the mat. I am out of clichés.
Anyway, after visiting 7-Eleven twice yesterday, finishing my taquitos and cheetos before I had completed the one block walk to my bicycle, after I stayed up late watching Battlestar Galactica, a show I have no interest in, and after masturbating twice to the dirtiest kind of smut, the kind that makes me shake with guilt and pray that god isn’t watching when I’m through, after all of this, and after I woke up late and watched more Battlestar Galactica, I decided that today would be the day. I woke up, masturbated without pornography, exercised, and went to work. So, eight hours in, today is the day. Let’s hope this sticks.

Wine bottle

I have this bottle of wine that was a gift from my last serious girlfriend. Carrie gave me the wine shortly before she turned into a Machiavellian lunatic, and supposedly it was pretty good stuff, so I kept it on a shelf next to my bed, and it would sit there and I would look at it from time to time and wait for a reason to drink it. When Carrie and I actually broke up, I thought we might get back together, so I saved it, and then when we were really finished, I was so apathetic towards her that I didn’t want to make a big deal out of the wine.

The bottle got a little dusty, and I waited for a special event, for a romantic night with some unnamed new girl. I envisioned us drinking the syrah together. I would laugh to myself about how Carrie was funding my new romance, how this was probably not how she had first pictured this bottle’s demise, and how I would use the intoxication provided by the wine to seduce the next love of my life. This never happened. Albertine was as close as it got, and she preferred whites.

Last night, after the bath and the I Ching, I drank the wine, alone, working in my office, out of a plastic cup. I was reminded of that scene in the movie Sideways, where the Paul Giamatti character finishes off the pride of his wine collection in a fast food restaurant, drinking it out of a Styrofoam cup. On the surface, that scene looks so pathetic, but there’s a feeling of catharsis there that enabled me as a viewer to feel positive about this lonely alcoholic’s little rebellion. It’s like he’s letting go of this iconic artifact that’s part of the life he needs to change.

I’m not saying my own thing was that critical. I was just getting rid of a consumable that needed to be gotten rid of. Albertine had canceled my Saturday dinner and drinks and afterwards plans, so I figured I would use my free time to expunge the relics of another woman in such a way that I was also dealing with this new thing. I opened the bottle, deleted Albertine’s so-charming emails, and moved on to real work. Hours later, I felt drunk and productive, and proud of myself for handling this new loneliness in a constructive manner.

bathtime with Ching

My depression subsided a bit as soon as Albertine dumped me. I drew a hot bath and sat in it, watching sitcoms and reading books about democracy until the hot water induced sweat and thirst. I got as low as I could in the water, a rim of suds ringed my face, and I stared at the ceiling. I felt enervated. I felt as if I would never walk again. I thought about my free standing, clawfoot tub, and wondered how much it, and the water, and my body weighed together. I waited for us to crash through the floor, and as I sat, looking at the ceiling, I had the impression of that ring of water around my face, the ellipse of the shower curtain rod framing the ceiling, little shower curtain rings holding the shower. But all I though about was, “wow, what a lot of rings.” For the moment, I did not worry about outcomes, would she won’t shes, sexual theatrics and conversation inhibitions. This hadn’t happened in several days.

The water was cold.

When I got up, I decided I would like to throw the I Ching. Some people use the I Ching as some sort of soothsaying device. Others simply use the book for Taoist guidance. I think Carl Jung might have said that tools like the I Ching help us clarify our range of choice, help us filter the course of actions we will or won’t be pursuing, like a more advance version of the toincoss where, when you don’t get the result you were looking for, so you simply flip again. Whenever I’m done pinning all my hopes for a future of conventional domestic bliss on someone who ends up not being worth the daydreaming effort, I feel rudderless. All of a sudden, I’ve got all of this time to think, and nothing to think about. I throw the I Ching.

It tells me I have Great Power. I smile. We'll see how this goes.

In bed, weekday morning

My new sheets are dark and soft. The morning’s light streams onto them and they absorb it all. They cant take anything the sun can throw at them because they are badass. My body warms while a continual cool wind keeps my head comfortable. I am not getting out of bed today. It’s funny. Last night was pleasant. Albertine and I had a drink and watched a movie, Pan’s Labyrinth. We followed it up with insightful (in my book) discourse and some simple time lying in bed together. I left unsatisfied, however, and the brevity of the kiss at the end left me wanting more. I left at 1:15 A.M., on my bicycle, and felt cold, lonely, unsure of the future. I am not happy with this uncertainty.

I am not getting out of bed today. I feel unable to cope, to work, to make small talk with strange Miranda and ebullient Gilberte. I don’t want to talk to my clients on the phone, and I do not want to sit at my desk. I stay here, sometimes asleep, sometimes not. It is quiet in the morning. I enjoy the quiet.

At noon, I think about how many signs of depression I am showing right now. I shrug it off. But then, depression is lame, right? Twenty minutes later I decide to compromise. I will not go to work, but I will, to some extent, be a functioning member of society. I will go to the coffeeshop. I will read, do some light work, and be around people. This feels like it will be a resounding success.

On the roof, 3Am

I thought it could clear my head. I shouldn’t have brought the rum. It was Wednesday morning, 3Am. Simon and Garfunkel never crossed my mind. I had had all of these ideas, you know? The dangerous thing about these ideas, for me, was that I had never been able to envision alternatives. Once your assumed future becomes an impossibility, you’re left with no expectations, right? And then you have to rebuild it all again. This takes time.

What I’m trying to say here is, once all of your goals have been set on fire and stomped on, you’ve got to take a minute. So, I went out on the roof. I listened to music, I drank that rum. It was late/early, but I didn’t feel sleepy, just tired in that way where you don’t want to stand, to walk, to move your head, to think. It was warm on the roof. The shingles felt reassuringly gritty on my back. I wasn’t going to slide away.

I couldn’t stop thinking.

Miranda touches me too much.

My professional prospects are approaching zero.

No woman, (and especially the one woman, Albertine), would ever love me‘ (pathos)

Perhaps I should get a cat.

I spent some time thinking about the names of cats. It was pleasant. I went through the Proustian, Shakespearian, lowbrow, highbrow. . .
For a moment, Brian Jones sounded appropriate.

Three drunken teenagers walked down the street. I tried to stay still, to not let myself be framed in the window light behind me. I worried about them calling a cat burglary into the police. Embarrassing.

A raccoon crossed through the caramel glow of a streetlight. Its humpbacked walk made it look prehistoric, carapaced, feral. I thought about coyotes.

I thought about Albertine, in bed, alone. I wanted a cuddle.

I finished my rum. I had been drinking it from a plastic water bottle, which now smelled like the kitchen floor on the day after a party. I stood up, climbed back through the window, turned the music off. I decided that going to bed would be appropriate.

self image

This morning I ran far and fast. I was shirtless and lithe. I hopped rocks and took corners. I was tanned by the sun and my muscles felt used. I felt young, handsome, unstoppable, charming. Yes, somehow, running made my charming.

This afternoon I was alone in my office. I went unattended. I hoped my email was dead, simply because that alternative was preferable to the knowledge that no one wanted to correspond with me. I felt tired, old, ugly, forlorn.

Thie evening I walked downtown. I had changed into nice clothes. A well-fitted shirt and my favorite blue jeans. I thought about blue jeans as America’s most valuable cultural export. I felt clever. My hair blew in the wind. I felt tan and confident again. I could have used some conversation, though.

insomnia

Last night I couldn’t sleep because of the stifled concerns susurrating across my bedroom, like buzzing flies or the sound of hard sleet on thin windowpane. I had some wonderful, tortured insomnia. After laying in bed for hours, uncomfortable to the point where sleep was no longer worth attaining, I thought about getting up for work, housecleaning, fucking. . .options for how to divert myself were considered and rejected (one was desirable but impossible, the other two did not seem distracting enough). i decided to go outside. I put on some pants and a fleece.

I walked downstairs and out the door. I wondered if my roommate would hear me leave. The air was cool. It was 3:03 A.M. I unlocked my bicycle and rode it around town. My eyes hurt.

The first bus to the Denver airport leaves at 3:20, and spring break
starts tomorrow, so many of the bus stops were filled with undergraduates
and their baggage. The only other people I saw were the late night drunks
and the too-young looking hook-ups swerving their way home. They all had better things to do than I did. They were going places with family and friends. They were going to have sex or cuddle or sleep it off. Wonderful. I stared at them. I was jealous. I thought about riding up the hill and waiting the three hours until dawn. Wouldn’t that be romantic? It seemed like too much work. I thought about bicycling by Albertine's house, just to feel close to her. I imagined the awkward conversation that would ensue if by I ran into her through some bizarre happenstance, what I could tell her to explain away my presence in her remote neighborhood at four in the morning.
At four in the morning, everything seems ill-advised. I stood straddling the top bar of my bike. I was crippled by indecision. There were no desirable alternatives. The empty town was lonelier than my bedroom. I went home. I made a quesadilla. I went to sleep. Going home felt incomplete. Going to sleep was nice, for a while. The quesadilla could have been better.

anticipation/expectation

While we are supposed to be working, we talk. We talk with our eyes on our computer screens; there is no eye contact, no keyboard-and-mouse-work, either. Maybe we're distracted by the too-quick-for-human-eyes flash of the screen, maybe we're maintaining an illusion that work could commence at any time, or maybe we would just get exhausted from the uninterrupted eye contact that ensues from real conversation. We talk without looking at each other.

We talk about me, because it assuages my reduced sense of self, and because Miranda would rather concentrate on me. At least my traumas are amusing. They are trifling enough for office discussion.

Lately, we discuss my rampant expectations, my boundless ability to wait and hope and dote on a woman I barely know. It's all a result of my impatience, my desire for resolution. If I sit there without talking to Miranda, I think about the last conversation I had with ex-boyfriend-bound Albertine. I diagram it. I dissect it. I wonder what she meant when she paused and said, ". . ." So, I ask Miranda.

Miranda may be in love with me. I've never been able to tell.

I relate the details to her:

“But she kissed me at the end!”
“She said she was ‘homesick’ for him.”
“She was forthright with me. Is that worth something?”
“I’m in love with her.” I pretend to be joking.
It’s all quite boring, really. Miranda acts rapt.

She touched my shoulder twice today. I pulled away a little.

While I wait for Albertine to call, or not call (in which case I will call because of my overwhelming need to feel that final rejection instead of the tortuously slow diminishing of hope that occurs otherwise),, I have Miranda. She’ll listen to my half-concealed obsession and my unconcealed impatience. She’ll say:
“you’re a good guy”
“you’re really exposing your neck”
“she’ll call back”
I don’t believe her, but I like that she listens and that she compliments me, because she may be in love with me. But, she may just be a flatterer.