The Girl Who Did Not Yet Die

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Oy vey.

I would like to see if I could write a post entirely without the letter on this keyboard that is loose.  I have written about this before but it would be a sort of test to finish a post written in just this way.  And it would help this be written in haste.  If, also, create a tone that is obnoxious and bizarre, but I will not fight it.  It’s probably not going to be possible.  Ah, well, it’s some letters on the page.

But beyond that, obviously, the date.  I realize now what I need to call this feeling.  It’s vulnerability.  I feel deeply vulnerable about how it went.  Not that I feel it went well (or didn’t go well), I just feel like I tried, I pushed to express positivity, to speak what I know to be true.  I found it was quite possible to like his face.  I found a lot of things.  We stayed at the coffee shop for nearly three hours talking.  We didn’t stop talking really at all during that period.  He made me laugh, I think I either charmed him (charmed?) or was a letdown he properly and politely did not acknowledge.  We talked about Proust and Steinbeck and the Handmaid’s Tale and Neil Simon and Billy Joel and HBO and geography and songs from the eighties and writing groups and travel and the way things should be and the way things are.  We both appeared to smile a bit.  It had an awkward ending, though, one of those, ah, well, I guess I just go.  I guess we’ll email.  I tried to affirm that.  Of course we would email.  It was in the bright sunlight and I realized the sensation of owning a body once we left the table and I…was willing to do anything.  Ahem, not anything, but anything appropriate to that moment and I just sort of drifted, like there’s my car okay baiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii.   Sigh.  Reliving that at the moment.

He was entirely genial, friendly, not awkward seeming if he were awkward feeling where as I am fairly sure I let my desire to seem relaxed make me seem stilted and rusty.  We talked about, in a roundabout way, how important it was to talk to people who understood you.  I used bigger words than I normally do.  I rambled and may have spoken about fucking dolphins.  I’m pretty sure I did.  But I suppose with context it would sound better, but possibly not..  I talked about how much I loved my friends.  I tried to stop talking for a bit and ask him about himself and he was able to describe himself just as you’d hope after reading his letters, with intelligence and an acerbic wit.

Did my laughs sound fake?  They weren’t.  They just are…rusty like so much of this.  Sigh.

I don’t want to beat myself up over it one way or another, but obviously this is perfect fodder to work over in my mind.  I hate to think, of course, that there are other girls he’s dated that all did something that I’m not doing.  I suppose all of this is natural, part of the giant wave of uncertainty single people go through when they decide to do something about their singleness.

I neither want to date him (except I kind of do) or not date him, but I don’t want, more than anything to have been weird in some way and not know it.  And I’ll never know if that’s the case.  So, yep.

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