If it appears that she doesn’t care, it might be that some small part of her does not.
But we can’t feed that part.
I can talk about you, always about you, but it always seems private now. It always seems as though I would be garishly overexposed if I said true facts, true opinions. And now there is another person who has invested in these facts and opinions so I can’t bend them, bobble them about, warm them until they’re malleable and ready to be some other story. These are things I am willing to shout at the internet that cannot, even it wants to, care about me as a single, particular person. But not really things I need to tell my sister. Maybe I’d lock the post, but that strikes me as odd, random, isolating when the shout is the point. Just to vent the hot, sickly air.
We are there for each other. We are imperfect at this. We are disinterested at times at things that seem so pertinent and essential to the other. I will complain about work, about stress, about a boss I am intimidated by and I can feel the recoil, the desire not to re-experience what he feels about work again through me. I hear the immediate desire to change the topic of conversation. He’ll tell me a litany of detail about gory films, the minutiae of which disturbs me or is so granular that I find my ability to find any point of access or purchase for my interest to hang on
Let’s just say that I wonder at times – now that I have, in fair measure, exactly what the RP’er was providing me in even more skillful form – what I am waiting for. Or waiting to ask for. Now that I am so regularly entertained.
Can I not fall for him unless I can be with him? Is this falling? In bits and pieces, spurts and starts, antes and called bets? One day is the same as the next, but the progress of each day remains static. Nothing builds, nothing deflates.
How can two people be so ravenous for one another’s company and yet so disinterested in making each other three dimensional?
He told me he dreamed about me, dreamed about having turkey sandwiches with stuffing in the midst of dreaming out me I play at imagining this is his subconscious telling him to visit for Thanksgiving, to agree to my suggestion to do just that, and then am in full horror at ever having suggested it. This heretofore impossible thing that would demand the shifting of time and space and other acts that once seemed the province of gods and now appear only to require a few forms and plane ticket. No passports needed.
Meanwhile, we do not clarify the aneiromantic interpretations.
He cooks pasta sauce. I eat cheesecake. The calendar spins and I tell him more about my job that worries me and he says more about this movie with Ian McKellan. None of this right. Or wrong. It just is.