There are sit-down talks. (They are tiresome.) There are separations. (They don’t last.) There are tears. (They aren’t yours.) There are awkward reconciliations. (They are selfish and stunted.) There are ultimatums. (I thought we weren’t in a relationship here?)
The friendship that you thought somewhat durable is now not only showing fault lines but has actually collapsed quite completely beneath you, and you are left hunched on the passionless heap, your unimpressed hand squashed into your unimpressed face. You have to prudently back the fuck out, it seems, because your charming presence is just too much for your admirer to bear. The real you must withdraw just a little bit; not talk about your body or your feelings on your pseudo bisexuality and definitely no song-playing with lyrics that can be misconstrued as a hidden message, no mention of any actual or possible past/present/future conquests and especially no passing comment on that guy in the next car’s beard. (This is if you care of course. You could do nothing and just be AWESOME.)
Another lover gained. Another buddy lost.
End it all now! Take me back take us back let’s be friends and confidantes and eat sandwiches together and speak about everything our jobs our imaginary careers that book we should write together how this film is so kak who we’d like to kiss how that girl looks like that weird one from that thing about my itchy skin allergy that no isn’t contagious where we should go next Sunday afternoon how I don’t like that one friend of yours about how boss nineties movies are about how cool the word boss is why isn’t it used anymore let’s bring it back that you prefer my hair reddish now that it’s dark how that Nandos by your house has really gone downhill why this sort of music is even made should we get tickets for that thing you never wear your glasses anymore is that shirt new weren’t we supposed to be doing something tonight instead of just sitting here in your house.
End it all.
Because all we talk about now… Is us.
And it’s killing me.
The worst of it is this boy’s outpouring of tumultuous passion, this jet stream of lust, his grand proclamations of perennial love that are beautiful and inspiring and are sometimes too much but sometimes just right are just a constant, torturous reminder that You. Just. Aren’t. Feeling. Anything.
Wait a minute… Hold the phone. Could it be…? Wait, here it comes… It’s coming! An epiphany! My epiphany! Do my ratty feelings on this whole subject all just mean that I… dear me, I… just want… to love..?
Of course! Should I just give in then? Just go for it? Oh, to requite! The pleasure! The cheek-numbing joy! The mind-deadening, brain-fucking bliss! How easy it all seems! How happy we would be! You are quite lovely really… We could move past my insecurities, we would be the most beautiful couple. We would go to braais together and all our friends would shake their heads and smile and say Ah we knew it and we would get an apartment after a few years and we could even eventually get married and have little kid-lings of ourselves who would have the best taste in music because we’d make them that way and we could grow old together and watch our granddaughter get married and then we would die, happy, sighing in each others arms, spent from our magical life, because that was what is and always was meant to be.
But, um… I just don’t see you that way.