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.