She Loves Me?

 invite her to dinner, under the auspices of work. She can drive, I say, since I don't have a car and need to get there, and unspoken is that there will be other people there. I think I sense her excitement, but maybe it's my imagination fueled by itself, feeding upon my week of imaginations and wonderings. She agrees to go with me. I shower in 5 minutes and am dressed in 10. I sit and wait for the hour to pass, fidgeting. We drive to the restaurant. Out of our group of 12 or so she is the only one I see. I am jealous of other people, even friends talking to her. Montage: Where We First Had Dinner Together I feel their intrusions, an annoyance I know to be irrational. We are connected. We seem to be tuned to the same frequency. She talks and I almost know what she will say. During dinner the amount of actual conversation between us is outweighed by the unspoken subtext of our other communications. We communicate by looking at each other, by subtle differences in the way we hold our fork, in a nod or a shift of eyes. The table conversation, which involves other people, is a cover for our deeper conversation, a conversation in a kind of dance. Somehow I know that it is only being seen by us, only felt by us, but it is like shouting in a room full of people and not being heard. When dinner ends she drives me back home. Our conversation alone together is strained with things that have been left unsaid. I feel a mounting tension, not bad but very palpable growing between us. The thing between us that was brought into existence the previous week is demanding to be recognized.

Continue . . .