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.
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.