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Not the One

February 10, 2016

The Iraqi wanted my help figuring out a bank statement. Something about a mistaken charge. I was at my new place, #3 mopping the kitchen floor. He hadn’t seen the place yet, so I invited him over. Soon after walking in, he pulled up the bank statement on his phone, asking me to call customer service for him. I obliged and navigated the recorded menu and customer service guy. The extra charge was from an airline ticket he had recently changed.

“They probably charged you for the new ticket and haven’t refunded you the old one yet,” I conjectured.

As I tried to go about my cleaning and unpacking, he kept following me pleading for me to make another call. “You can call them,” I said.

“My English isn’t good enough,” he claimed.

“Your English is fine,” I countered. “Besides, they’re used to talking to people who speak English as a second language.”

He kept insisting. I was getting annoyed. I sat down on the floor and called the airline. They told me to call back during business hours. I told him to call them the next day.

He flitted around me, flustered and mad. Not at me, but he was pissy. He called his friend, the one he had bought the ticket for and spoke loudly to him in Arabic. I didn’t need to speak the language to know he was fussing at him for his bank’s mistake. As I walked around dusting and sweeping I said to him, “Why are you fussing at him? It’s not his fault.”

He got off the phone and said he was going to leave.

“Ok,” I said.

“I’m mad,” he said.

“I can see that.”

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” he said. He kissed me on the cheek and left.

The idea that this little episode might have been the end of this little affair had little effect on me. Relief, if any.

I worked on #3 all weekend. I can’t wait to live in the space. It’s so me. The old windows with ropes and pullies, the layers of paint cracking in the seams, the scratched up, worn out, thick wood floors…and the light, so much direct light that I was sweating in the little, closed-in porch as I hung paper shades to replace the blinds. I want to make paper cranes and hang them on the top half of the windows so you can see them from the road. I want to put outdoor bulb lights on the ceiling. I want to find an old, beat up comfy sofa to watch movies on. I want to bake cookies and make spaghetti. This place is my home. It’s the kind of place an artist would paint in. It’s the kind of place a writer would write her first book in. It’s a place where extraordinary things could happen.

I was thinking these things Sunday afternoon as the sun fell and streaked into my new space. I imagined the rainbows that would be cast all over the room when I hung my crystals in the windows.

I wanted to share it with someone. I wanted to tell somebody, invite somebody over. Someone who got it, someone who would understand what it meant to me to be in that space. Pumpkin Patch would get it. Mr. Moon would get it. The Iraqi didn’t get it. He doesn’t get me. He doesn’t see me.

He’s super sweet to me. He came to see me at old #5 and sat and watched tv as I packed, waiting patiently for my attention. He gave me a long massage and we had our quick and sufficiently satisfying sex. Then he talked about work, complaining about people, mainly. As I looked at him and listened, it occurred to me that he complains a lot. He left to attend to a phone meeting (He works on Iraqi time.) and I went to sleep.

We don’t have fun. We don’t laugh a lot and text each other funny things during the day. We don’t go places and do things together.

“Don’t leave me,” he often whispers to me, half jokingly. He claims to want to be with me for the foreseeable future.

I don’t see it. I wonder how long I can sustain this level of disinterest and incompatibility. I wonder if I’m being mean by stringing him along, though I’ve been very clear from the start.

And I’m wondering where my real Mr. Moon is. I have this great new place to show him.


From → Rantings

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