"I'm a total neat freak," she tells me. "I have ocd. I clean thoroughly every weekend and like to keep the place spotless."
"Ok," I say. "I try to stay clean and will do my best. Just let me know if I leave a mess and I'll take care of it toot sweet." I smile at my bastardized French.
"Cool," she replies. "But seriously, I'll be cleaning all the time."
I'm beginning to doubt that she even knows what OCD means.
It's so easy to work in vignettes, moments captured as close to perfectly as possible. Then one moment begins bleeding into another, her presence the one consistent factor. Time loses all meaning, the days pooling into a blissful smear. And when the stark blankness of my life without her reappears underneath, I begin to wonder how we had run out ink.
“So,” I open, “why are we here?”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“I mean, why are we having breakfast, now? What's the purpose of doing this?”
I watch her. I can see her struggling. She doesn't know. She doesn't have the words. She can't really say.
“Well, I guess... Where do you want to go from here?”
"Knock, Knock," I say, a sly smile on my face. Wide eyes and excited grins greet me from below.
"Who's there?" they chorus.
"Eat mop who?"
"EWW! YOU SAID EAT MY POO!" I yell. They collapse in fits of giggles.
The joke is one I learned from a coworker at Eldora. It's sly, disgusting, and exactly what little kids enjoy.
Breakfast the other day was pleasant, and I appreciate that you wanted to meet, but I feel like it was a wasted opportunity to actually talk. When you said you still wanted to get together, I assumed you had things you wanted to say. I had hoped you wanted to explain how you&http://worldwide.aceharmon.com/#8217;ve been feeling and why things happened how they did from your side. Instead, when I asked you why we were there, you put the effort back on me, asking me to talk, asking what I wanted. I understand you were tired and had difficulty figuring out what to say—you admitted as much—but I left on Sunday with an even worse sense of closure.
And therein lies the rub.
“I think I'm done,” I say. It's the first time I've said it out loud. It feels good to say it.
I just wish I could say it to her.
It almost catches me off guard. I have to pause to think about it.
“That's too bad,” my friend tells me in the lull.
“No,” I reply, “it's not.” Yes, it is, I think.
There's this moment, when day three rolls around and I still haven't heard from her. I've been left to my own thoughts again. It's never a good thing.
There's a reason I prefer to stay busy all the time, why I throw myself into my work, why I focus so intently on whatever project is in front of me. It's to quiet the little voices in my head, the ones that niggle and prod, that play with reality.
But I'm not wrong here.
I had asked her to be better about communicating. She responded with an apology. And now she's responded with more silence.