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A Napkin Blog with the House White

April 11, 2014

transcript from Pamplona napkins:

napkin and wine

I didn’t bring anything to write on. I’m sitting alone at the bar…with nothing to write on or with. So, it’s a borrowed pen and napkins. What do I want to write about?–Cathy (my co-worker) told me her husband’s company was hiring—for Z. She gave me his e-mail address. I gave it to Z. He immediately send in his resume. “This company does exactly what I want to be doing,” he said. SHIT. The thought that he might get a job in Lafayette scares the shit out of me. What will I do then? I was counting on him moving. That was the way this was supposed to end. A nice, clean, understandable, sad yet romantic ending. The perfect ending. A long good-bye. A last night together. Dinner then a movie, then passionate, drawn-out sex. Staying up all night talking. One last kiss. Tears maybe. Expressions of love and longing. Then his absence. From Lafayette, from my world.

We would talk a little, message each other from time to time….Then slowly, ever so gently, move on while keeping the memory of what we were to each other safe, in tact, in a precious cocoon.

But if he stays for another year or more, something else might happen. I’ll try to break it off and he’ll come back–I’ll meet someone and it won’t be enough because it won’t be him. He’ll become fixated with some potential wife and we’ll stop seeing each other. We’ll keep coming up with reasons to stop seeing each other and keep coming back again and again, off and on, off and on in a unhealthy cycle of addiction. I won’t be strong enough to let him go. He won’t be smart enough to break it off and the cycle will go on longer and longer. When it does end it will be with an engagement. An arrangement. Obligations. Expectations. He will abandon me for his fate. I will let him go and I know I must. But it will be harder then if it happened today or tomorrow. I will become more attached to him… his presence, to his speech, to his smell.

Who am I kidding? I AM attached to his presence, his speech, his smell, his ways of being, the way he is with me. It IS going to end. It must end. The nature of the ending is the mystery.

I write these thoughts—calmly, a slight buzz in my head. The second glass of house white taking hold.

I love the ties they wear here. [extreme hipsters–party of eight–2 o’clock]

I feel serene. All around me, in front of me is movement. Orchestrated, not nervous but energetic movement. The dance of the bar. Pouring pineapple juice, mixing the sangria from the freshly sliced fruit from earlier today. The chatter is loud around me, though remarkably, the bar is sparse. People are with people, sitting with tables. Cool hip groups of connections. They must be superior to me, n’on? They must be–because they sit together with jackets and ties and coolness and beards and androgyny and tousled, perfectly placed hair. They are on dates. They have plans. They planned to meet here, eight at a table. I couldn’t assemble eight people to sit with at one table to save my life. I hope at least eight people show up at my funeral.

This is good shit on these napkins.

Anyway, the real people, the important people are assembled around me. Talking and laughing. I’m sitting by myself, waiting for Liz and the graphic designer to possibly show up after the Gal Holiday show.

He asked me to watch cricket with him. He wants to come over and watch the India vs. Bangladesh game tomorrow night. I’m so blindly crazy about him, I thought this was the sweetest, cutest request. He probably just has no one else to watch it with. He’s probably using me for my big screen t.v. Guess what? I don’t care! I want to lay next to him as he watches a cricket game. I’ll work on the HOLI photos I will have taken by then and watch him watch cricket and it will seem like heaven. The company he’s applying for has locations in Lafayette, Houston, India and all over the world. Maybe he’ll start in Lafayette then go elsewhere. Far, far…away.

Dear God, take him far, far away….release me from this addiction, this spell, this magnatism. Take him out of my available grasp–but keep him safe, make him happy and keep some happiness for me too. What am I supposed to write now?

I saw Syrian Dr. again the other night. Here. He’s put on about 30lbs. He didn’t look that bad. Just changed. He was with a woman with a very distinctive laugh. He made eye contact. But of course didn’t acknowledge my presence.

I got a text from my ex the other day and I had a remarkable non-reaction to it. That was exciting—actually it was nothing which is its own kind of excitement. To respond to something with apathy—something that used to send me in a tail spin is pretty fucking exciting—in an apathetic kind of way.

Where is Liz and the graphic designer? Maybe I should go home. Though I’m seriously considering the salmon. It’s so good. They make it with kale.

I should eat more kale.


From → Rantings

One Comment
  1. Sheri permalink

    I’ll be at your funeral and will bring at least 7 other people with me! I love your blogs.

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