If you hate walking into spider webs as much as I do, you might want to carry a stick or walk behind someone taller than you if you decide to go for a walk in the woods.
If it's getting too cold to go hiking where you live, it's probably time to put down your storm windows.
07 November 2005
05 November 2005
prequel to the sequel?
(the beginning)
I'm sure this is not at all what you had in mind, Sarooo, but it is for you just the same.
Our meeting had all the earmarks of a great story we'd tell at our wedding, and for that I should've known it was doomed. We spent 4 years at the same college but didn't meet until our graduation rehearsal when our surnames put Ted and I side by side. There wouldn't have been much to say, if not for two things: we discovered Splice was a mutual friend, and I pulled out a 1974 yearbook I'd recently received that was full of hippies, nudity, glamour, and old pictures of a few professors still at the college.
Six years later, Splice got married on campus, and the seating chart for the reception put Ted and I next to each other again. By the end of the night, Splice was telling me to go smooch him.
A friend of mine from grad school happened to be teaching at the college that year, so I was staying with him for the weekend. It was after midnight, so Ted offered to walk me back to Marc's place. When we reached the small front porch, I was relieved to see that the door was slightly ajar. Marc lived in a house with a few apartments, but his bell for the front door wasn't working which meant you had to bang or yell until he noticed.
I stood on the step above Ted which made me a little taller than him as we said goodnight.
NEXT>>>
I'm sure this is not at all what you had in mind, Sarooo, but it is for you just the same.
Our meeting had all the earmarks of a great story we'd tell at our wedding, and for that I should've known it was doomed. We spent 4 years at the same college but didn't meet until our graduation rehearsal when our surnames put Ted and I side by side. There wouldn't have been much to say, if not for two things: we discovered Splice was a mutual friend, and I pulled out a 1974 yearbook I'd recently received that was full of hippies, nudity, glamour, and old pictures of a few professors still at the college.
Six years later, Splice got married on campus, and the seating chart for the reception put Ted and I next to each other again. By the end of the night, Splice was telling me to go smooch him.
A friend of mine from grad school happened to be teaching at the college that year, so I was staying with him for the weekend. It was after midnight, so Ted offered to walk me back to Marc's place. When we reached the small front porch, I was relieved to see that the door was slightly ajar. Marc lived in a house with a few apartments, but his bell for the front door wasn't working which meant you had to bang or yell until he noticed.
I stood on the step above Ted which made me a little taller than him as we said goodnight.
NEXT>>>
The tipping point
I was annoyed because I had other things on my agenda yesterday when mom was gungho about pulling the tall black chest out of my room.
I had assumed it was completely full of her stuff, but some drawers were actually empty because of a kerosene smell emanating from them. Like much old furniture, the drawers were shallow, so I'd never been interested in using it anyway. Having it gone though opened up the room immensely. For the first time since I came home, the room feels like it has more stuff that's mine in it than isn't.
Oddly this served as a reminder that I need to get my act together and move out. One of these days...
I had assumed it was completely full of her stuff, but some drawers were actually empty because of a kerosene smell emanating from them. Like much old furniture, the drawers were shallow, so I'd never been interested in using it anyway. Having it gone though opened up the room immensely. For the first time since I came home, the room feels like it has more stuff that's mine in it than isn't.
Oddly this served as a reminder that I need to get my act together and move out. One of these days...
04 November 2005
3 on 3
Eight years ago on a pleasant day much like this one, I met up with some friends at a park off Tujunga Ave. in North Hollywood to play a friendly game of touch football. The six of us knew each other from grad school: three of us had just graduated a couple months before, and the other three had graduated a year ahead of us.
James, Elaine, and I formed one team, and Gil, Dennis, and Tom made up the other. With teams of three, everyone was really involved in the game. My throws didn't have much spiral, but my aim was good, and the ball didn't flop end over end, so I ended up as the quarterback. It didn't take long for me to see that Gil was taking the game much more seriously than the rest of us. As soon as his mississippi count was done, he was charging at me hard every single play.
Touch football's flaw has always been that to block, you still really have to block. In his case though, his aggressive competitiveness felt personal. We'd dated for a while in grad school a year and a half earlier, but I'd withdrawn by throwing myself into my classes over the summer semester before he graduated. Maybe he's just a jerk when it comes to sports, I thought to myself.
After each "hike," I got rid of the ball as fast as I could and braced myself for Gil's lunging block. He didn't tackle me, but I knew I'd be sore the next day; it was intimidating and pissed me off.
The others must have sensed the moment that I was fed up enough to quit, because Tom suggested we switch up the teams and everyone readily agreed. Gil and James switched places, and the game became much easier.
Possession of the ball went back and forth a couple times until it was back to James, Dennis, and Tom's team. When their quarterback threw the ball, Gil intercepted it. In that moment, my desire to win overcame my common sense, and I ran to block James. Though he's tall and slender, his body is all muscle and bone. Had he seen me, he would've slowed down or altered course. But he didn't.
His shoulder clobbered me full force on the side of my neck and across my shoulder. The ground was cool and hard. As I lay there unmoving, I wondered if I was seriously injured. I thought my way through my body trying to figure out if I could move. From the cheering further down the field, I could tell we'd scored, but I no longer cared.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I didn't see you. Are you all right?" James asked as he knelt beside me.
I pushed myself up on my elbows and looked around. "I think so." He helped me up, and we joined the others in the end zone. My throat was sore and talking aggravated the strain.
"I think I'm going to call it a day," I announced. There was talk of getting food, but I opted to go home instead.
Later, it occurred to me that James could've crushed my windpipe if his shoulder had hit me just an inch or two over. As my shoulder started throbbing, I swore I'd never play football again.
(NB: names changed)
James, Elaine, and I formed one team, and Gil, Dennis, and Tom made up the other. With teams of three, everyone was really involved in the game. My throws didn't have much spiral, but my aim was good, and the ball didn't flop end over end, so I ended up as the quarterback. It didn't take long for me to see that Gil was taking the game much more seriously than the rest of us. As soon as his mississippi count was done, he was charging at me hard every single play.
Touch football's flaw has always been that to block, you still really have to block. In his case though, his aggressive competitiveness felt personal. We'd dated for a while in grad school a year and a half earlier, but I'd withdrawn by throwing myself into my classes over the summer semester before he graduated. Maybe he's just a jerk when it comes to sports, I thought to myself.
After each "hike," I got rid of the ball as fast as I could and braced myself for Gil's lunging block. He didn't tackle me, but I knew I'd be sore the next day; it was intimidating and pissed me off.
The others must have sensed the moment that I was fed up enough to quit, because Tom suggested we switch up the teams and everyone readily agreed. Gil and James switched places, and the game became much easier.
Possession of the ball went back and forth a couple times until it was back to James, Dennis, and Tom's team. When their quarterback threw the ball, Gil intercepted it. In that moment, my desire to win overcame my common sense, and I ran to block James. Though he's tall and slender, his body is all muscle and bone. Had he seen me, he would've slowed down or altered course. But he didn't.
His shoulder clobbered me full force on the side of my neck and across my shoulder. The ground was cool and hard. As I lay there unmoving, I wondered if I was seriously injured. I thought my way through my body trying to figure out if I could move. From the cheering further down the field, I could tell we'd scored, but I no longer cared.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I didn't see you. Are you all right?" James asked as he knelt beside me.
I pushed myself up on my elbows and looked around. "I think so." He helped me up, and we joined the others in the end zone. My throat was sore and talking aggravated the strain.
"I think I'm going to call it a day," I announced. There was talk of getting food, but I opted to go home instead.
Later, it occurred to me that James could've crushed my windpipe if his shoulder had hit me just an inch or two over. As my shoulder started throbbing, I swore I'd never play football again.
(NB: names changed)
02 November 2005
At the bar after the wedding reception
In my last post, I mentioned a guy that I was interested in after meeting him at a wedding. We'd actually met once before; Ted and I sat next to each other for the rehearsal and graduation from college. Six years later, we were back on campus at our mutual friend's wedding.
We hung out for hours. After we closed out the reception venue, all of the young adults spent a few more hours at the Dutch Cabin, a Mexican restaurant/bar, that many of us had frequented years before.
With a big grin, Splice reached across the table, placing her hand behind my neck and pulled me diagonally across. Cheek to cheek, she spoke into my right ear, “So, are you and Ted hitting it off?”
My cheeks started to burn. She could probably feel it: if not by actual warmth, certainly by body language. She continued, “Because you're two of my closest friends, and I love you dearly. So go smooch.” She planted a kiss on my cheek and let me go.
I straightened up still looking at her. I didn't speak, but there was no need. I stepped back, put on my jacket and waited for Ted as he made his rounds of good-byes for the night. Splice pulled him close too, and I'd guess they had much the same conversation.
Apparently I'd left my mind open to read. Or maybe my heart. Considering it was her wedding day, she wasn't supposed to have time to notice; if she did, then the whole end of her table probably knew that I liked Ted. A few years earlier, I probably would've been mortified into hiding my feelings just to prove her wrong. Instead, beautifully, any embarrassment I felt at being read so easily made me grin and laugh.
NEXT>>>
NB: names changed
We hung out for hours. After we closed out the reception venue, all of the young adults spent a few more hours at the Dutch Cabin, a Mexican restaurant/bar, that many of us had frequented years before.
With a big grin, Splice reached across the table, placing her hand behind my neck and pulled me diagonally across. Cheek to cheek, she spoke into my right ear, “So, are you and Ted hitting it off?”
My cheeks started to burn. She could probably feel it: if not by actual warmth, certainly by body language. She continued, “Because you're two of my closest friends, and I love you dearly. So go smooch.” She planted a kiss on my cheek and let me go.
I straightened up still looking at her. I didn't speak, but there was no need. I stepped back, put on my jacket and waited for Ted as he made his rounds of good-byes for the night. Splice pulled him close too, and I'd guess they had much the same conversation.
Apparently I'd left my mind open to read. Or maybe my heart. Considering it was her wedding day, she wasn't supposed to have time to notice; if she did, then the whole end of her table probably knew that I liked Ted. A few years earlier, I probably would've been mortified into hiding my feelings just to prove her wrong. Instead, beautifully, any embarrassment I felt at being read so easily made me grin and laugh.
NEXT>>>
NB: names changed
Phase 1
Considering the various eruptions of frustration I've experienced today, I'm pretty happy with the new look for the blog. I don't consider it done, but I can't stare at hexadecimal color codes any longer today. Let me know if you have any trouble viewing it, e.g., formatting issues with other browsers.
Thanks, Rarity, for your help.
Thanks, Rarity, for your help.
01 November 2005
Eye Contact (intermezzo)
The break between spring and summer semesters arrived and the library was nearly empty again, the staff greatly outnumbering the patrons. As usual, the makeshift computer lab (not even run by library staff) was the busiest spot in the building. Students wandered in to finish papers, projects, and to play games on the lab’s decked out computers. For my part, this was the first downtime I’d had at the media center in months so once the daily paperwork was out of the way, I popped a movie into the media cart to "familiarize myself with the collection" as I told anyone who inquired, particularly the bunch of slackers upset by my good fortune. I had earned it and my supervisor concurred.
During breaks, the building was open fewer hours so only library staff were let in early to start computers and set up before patrons were allowed in. The computer lab staff had been arriving a few minutes after the building was officially open.
A short student approached my counter so I sat up, ready to help. "Is the computer lab open today?"
"Yes, it should be." I looked across the tables and media alcoves and saw that the lab monitor hadn’t arrived yet. "They’re sometimes a few minutes late since they can’t get into the building before it’s open to the public."
“Oh.”
“They should be in shortly.”
The student looked confused as if she’d wanted a better reassurance from me, but after a moment, she turned and walked towards the lab without saying anything else. The lab staff arrived at the entrance just before her so I focused on my morning paperwork satisfied that the matter was resolved.
Three hours later, she returned striding across the long expanse purposefully. I lifted the VCR remote, paused the film I was watching, and turned to give her my full attention. From fifteen feet away, she hailed, “Working hard or hardly working?”
Original, I thought sarcastically to myself. Pleasantly, I replied, “I’m familiarizing myself with the collection so I can better help people.”
She smirked and rested her hands on the tall counter. “What are you doing tonight?”
Hunh? Is she asking me out? “Why?” I ventured cautiously.
“Because I haven’t been able to get what you said out of my head since I went into the lab.” That was three hours ago. I tried to remember what I’d said. She continued, slightly misquoting me, “’They should be here shortly,’ ‘Sometimes, they’re a few minutes late since they can’t get into the building.’ I’ve been hearing these over and over in my head. I can’t get the way you talk out of my head.” She looked away bashfully.
“Oh.” She sounded a little crazy to me.
“What?” she asked.
“I just said, ‘oh.’”
“So what are you doing tonight?”
She definitely is asking me out. It was Thursday, and I was thrilled to have a real excuse as I don’t often lie and only in the most extreme circumstances to a direct question. “A friend of mine is going to call so we can catch up.”
“Excuse me?” She looked away again and I noticed a clear plastic hearing aid protruding from one ear. Since I knew from experience that even unconscious lipreading improves comprehension, I repeated my answer addressing her directly.
Clearly, she thought it was a lie or at best, very flimsy. “Who’s your friend?”
“You wouldn’t know her,” I explained realizing that was the lamest thing I could’ve said. “She’s lives in LA.”
“Can’t you call her another night?” she persisted.
“She has a really hectic schedule and we arranged for her to call tonight. I haven’t talked to her in ages and am looking forward to catching up with her.”
She wasn’t buying it. “Really?”
Tired of being disbelieved, I stated firmly, “I don’t lie.”
“Neither do I. That’s so refreshing. How about tomorrow night?”
Oh brother. This was going to be a problem because I had no Friday night plans yet. “Uh...” My mind raced through ways to say I wasn’t interested without actually saying it. I wasn’t, right? I looked across at her: she was decent looking, but standing, she was only as tall as my seated height. No, not interested. Besides it’s weird being approached based on a 3 minute exchange; that means the attraction is based overwhelmingly on my looks. That’s it! “I don’t even know you.”
“That’s the point of going out.”
I glanced at the staff elevator and the open doors leading to the Documents department: no one was nearby. “I’m not a student and I look a lot younger than I am,” I stated carefully for emphasis. “I’m 28.”
“I’m 22 and I think maturity is a state of mind,” she countered. “I was married to an older woman for three years up until a few months ago.”
Multiple red flags popped up in my head: she’s on the rebound, she’s in to older women, and she equates marrying young with maturity even though her marriage didn’t work out. I wondered if they’d actually had a ceremony or if she just committed easily and quickly describing their relationship as marriage for effect. Distancing my argument from her personally, I rebutted, “Young couples have shotgun weddings all the time but that doesn’t mean they’re mature.” Though I continued looking at her when I spoke, she kept breaking eye contact, looking right, left, and coyly down which gave our conversation a stuttering comedy routine feel as I repeated fragments of what I’d just said. Clearly, my gaze was too intense to be met for long, but as she still had some difficulty understanding me, desisting (and thereby reducing the amount she understood) seemed impolite. Though it grated against my ingrained manners, I glanced away while she was talking to make her less self-conscious.
“It wasn’t like that at all. I met her at a club, we hung out all night, and I knew I wanted to be with her,” she expounded, “She was seeing other people at the time but I showed up every night and after three months, I moved in with her and we were married.”
My stalker red flag wagged violently at me. The more she tried to prove her maturity, the crazier she sounded. “Ok,” I conceded to keep her calm. “I’m just really anti-social.”
“That’s ok.”
WHAT? I clarified, “I don’t like people. My life’s motto is: People suck.”
“I’m an introvert too,” she said.
Aside from some nervous behavior, nothing about her announced: introvert. I wondered what else she would say to ingratiate herself. “I’m sorry, I’m just not interested.”
“Why not?”
In no particular order the following came to mind: you’re short, intimidated by my eye contact which I’m only doing to help you understand me, stalker crazy, and I can’t stand the name Brenda. She was watching me carefully as I replied, “There’s someone else I’m interested in.”
“Oh yeah? Who?”
Not again. “I met him at a wedding a few months ago.”
“Where does he live?” she said, emphasizing the male pronoun. Simply saying I was straight would put a quick end to this while preserving her feelings, but I couldn’t bring myself to lie after proclaiming my honesty.
Barney came to mind. We’d worked together on a terrible low budget movie in LA a couple of years before. As I was the gaffer (head of the electric department) and he was a 2nd 2nd assistant director (glorified production assistant), it would be more accurate to say we both worked on the same film as opposed to worked together. Many friends of mine were also on the production, and they laughed mercilessly as Barney relentlessly hit on me 6 days a week. I told him I wasn’t interested, but he persisted anyway. He was friendly and kind, but his constant advances annoyed me and precluded any interest I might’ve developed. During our third week of shooting, he hedged around waiting for me to reveal my sexual preference. I told him if he had something to ask, he should just ask. (It’s my opinion that if a person can’t ask you if you’re gay to your face, they’re not ready to hear the answer.) He explained that he’d previously been attracted to another strong woman who shared many of my qualities, but she wasn’t interested in him because she was gay. “Is that the case with you?”
I could’ve said yes and spared his feelings, but I had no compulsion to lie with all the times he’d unwelcomely hit on me. “No, I’m bi.”
Across the media counter, Brenda rephrased her question, “Are you really interested in someone else?”
“Yes, he lives in San Francisco.”
“San Francisco? How often do you see him?"
“Not since the wedding, but we’ve exchanged some great letters.”
“So are you dating long-distance?”
She was trying to sniff out a lie, but it was true: talking to her had clarified my feelings for Ted. “No, but he’s the one I want to be with. That’s just how I feel, and it wouldn’t be fair to string someone else along,” I concluded. Feelings you can’t control were something she understood.
“I never should’ve come over here.” She looked crushed, as if this one experience would discolor everything to follow.
I tried to lessen the importance of my rejection, “It took a lot of courage to approach someone you don’t know. I admire that. Don’t let my reaction discourage you. I’m sure there’s someone else out there who’ll be a great match for you.”
“I could’ve been the best thing that ever happened to you, but you wouldn’t give me a chance, so you’ll have to live with that.” She hoisted her backpack on her shoulder and walked away.
I shrugged and said, “Yup.” She was going to be fine. And I was going to be stalker-free.
(NB: names changed.)
During breaks, the building was open fewer hours so only library staff were let in early to start computers and set up before patrons were allowed in. The computer lab staff had been arriving a few minutes after the building was officially open.
A short student approached my counter so I sat up, ready to help. "Is the computer lab open today?"
"Yes, it should be." I looked across the tables and media alcoves and saw that the lab monitor hadn’t arrived yet. "They’re sometimes a few minutes late since they can’t get into the building before it’s open to the public."
“Oh.”
“They should be in shortly.”
The student looked confused as if she’d wanted a better reassurance from me, but after a moment, she turned and walked towards the lab without saying anything else. The lab staff arrived at the entrance just before her so I focused on my morning paperwork satisfied that the matter was resolved.
Three hours later, she returned striding across the long expanse purposefully. I lifted the VCR remote, paused the film I was watching, and turned to give her my full attention. From fifteen feet away, she hailed, “Working hard or hardly working?”
Original, I thought sarcastically to myself. Pleasantly, I replied, “I’m familiarizing myself with the collection so I can better help people.”
She smirked and rested her hands on the tall counter. “What are you doing tonight?”
Hunh? Is she asking me out? “Why?” I ventured cautiously.
“Because I haven’t been able to get what you said out of my head since I went into the lab.” That was three hours ago. I tried to remember what I’d said. She continued, slightly misquoting me, “’They should be here shortly,’ ‘Sometimes, they’re a few minutes late since they can’t get into the building.’ I’ve been hearing these over and over in my head. I can’t get the way you talk out of my head.” She looked away bashfully.
“Oh.” She sounded a little crazy to me.
“What?” she asked.
“I just said, ‘oh.’”
“So what are you doing tonight?”
She definitely is asking me out. It was Thursday, and I was thrilled to have a real excuse as I don’t often lie and only in the most extreme circumstances to a direct question. “A friend of mine is going to call so we can catch up.”
“Excuse me?” She looked away again and I noticed a clear plastic hearing aid protruding from one ear. Since I knew from experience that even unconscious lipreading improves comprehension, I repeated my answer addressing her directly.
Clearly, she thought it was a lie or at best, very flimsy. “Who’s your friend?”
“You wouldn’t know her,” I explained realizing that was the lamest thing I could’ve said. “She’s lives in LA.”
“Can’t you call her another night?” she persisted.
“She has a really hectic schedule and we arranged for her to call tonight. I haven’t talked to her in ages and am looking forward to catching up with her.”
She wasn’t buying it. “Really?”
Tired of being disbelieved, I stated firmly, “I don’t lie.”
“Neither do I. That’s so refreshing. How about tomorrow night?”
Oh brother. This was going to be a problem because I had no Friday night plans yet. “Uh...” My mind raced through ways to say I wasn’t interested without actually saying it. I wasn’t, right? I looked across at her: she was decent looking, but standing, she was only as tall as my seated height. No, not interested. Besides it’s weird being approached based on a 3 minute exchange; that means the attraction is based overwhelmingly on my looks. That’s it! “I don’t even know you.”
“That’s the point of going out.”
I glanced at the staff elevator and the open doors leading to the Documents department: no one was nearby. “I’m not a student and I look a lot younger than I am,” I stated carefully for emphasis. “I’m 28.”
“I’m 22 and I think maturity is a state of mind,” she countered. “I was married to an older woman for three years up until a few months ago.”
Multiple red flags popped up in my head: she’s on the rebound, she’s in to older women, and she equates marrying young with maturity even though her marriage didn’t work out. I wondered if they’d actually had a ceremony or if she just committed easily and quickly describing their relationship as marriage for effect. Distancing my argument from her personally, I rebutted, “Young couples have shotgun weddings all the time but that doesn’t mean they’re mature.” Though I continued looking at her when I spoke, she kept breaking eye contact, looking right, left, and coyly down which gave our conversation a stuttering comedy routine feel as I repeated fragments of what I’d just said. Clearly, my gaze was too intense to be met for long, but as she still had some difficulty understanding me, desisting (and thereby reducing the amount she understood) seemed impolite. Though it grated against my ingrained manners, I glanced away while she was talking to make her less self-conscious.
“It wasn’t like that at all. I met her at a club, we hung out all night, and I knew I wanted to be with her,” she expounded, “She was seeing other people at the time but I showed up every night and after three months, I moved in with her and we were married.”
My stalker red flag wagged violently at me. The more she tried to prove her maturity, the crazier she sounded. “Ok,” I conceded to keep her calm. “I’m just really anti-social.”
“That’s ok.”
WHAT? I clarified, “I don’t like people. My life’s motto is: People suck.”
“I’m an introvert too,” she said.
Aside from some nervous behavior, nothing about her announced: introvert. I wondered what else she would say to ingratiate herself. “I’m sorry, I’m just not interested.”
“Why not?”
In no particular order the following came to mind: you’re short, intimidated by my eye contact which I’m only doing to help you understand me, stalker crazy, and I can’t stand the name Brenda. She was watching me carefully as I replied, “There’s someone else I’m interested in.”
“Oh yeah? Who?”
Not again. “I met him at a wedding a few months ago.”
“Where does he live?” she said, emphasizing the male pronoun. Simply saying I was straight would put a quick end to this while preserving her feelings, but I couldn’t bring myself to lie after proclaiming my honesty.
Barney came to mind. We’d worked together on a terrible low budget movie in LA a couple of years before. As I was the gaffer (head of the electric department) and he was a 2nd 2nd assistant director (glorified production assistant), it would be more accurate to say we both worked on the same film as opposed to worked together. Many friends of mine were also on the production, and they laughed mercilessly as Barney relentlessly hit on me 6 days a week. I told him I wasn’t interested, but he persisted anyway. He was friendly and kind, but his constant advances annoyed me and precluded any interest I might’ve developed. During our third week of shooting, he hedged around waiting for me to reveal my sexual preference. I told him if he had something to ask, he should just ask. (It’s my opinion that if a person can’t ask you if you’re gay to your face, they’re not ready to hear the answer.) He explained that he’d previously been attracted to another strong woman who shared many of my qualities, but she wasn’t interested in him because she was gay. “Is that the case with you?”
I could’ve said yes and spared his feelings, but I had no compulsion to lie with all the times he’d unwelcomely hit on me. “No, I’m bi.”
Across the media counter, Brenda rephrased her question, “Are you really interested in someone else?”
“Yes, he lives in San Francisco.”
“San Francisco? How often do you see him?"
“Not since the wedding, but we’ve exchanged some great letters.”
“So are you dating long-distance?”
She was trying to sniff out a lie, but it was true: talking to her had clarified my feelings for Ted. “No, but he’s the one I want to be with. That’s just how I feel, and it wouldn’t be fair to string someone else along,” I concluded. Feelings you can’t control were something she understood.
“I never should’ve come over here.” She looked crushed, as if this one experience would discolor everything to follow.
I tried to lessen the importance of my rejection, “It took a lot of courage to approach someone you don’t know. I admire that. Don’t let my reaction discourage you. I’m sure there’s someone else out there who’ll be a great match for you.”
“I could’ve been the best thing that ever happened to you, but you wouldn’t give me a chance, so you’ll have to live with that.” She hoisted her backpack on her shoulder and walked away.
I shrugged and said, “Yup.” She was going to be fine. And I was going to be stalker-free.
(NB: names changed.)
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