Great expectations

It’s been a week since I have seen Vincent. At first, I was a bit relieved, as he is always willing to discuss with me how little he thinks of Drew or anybody else I happen to befriend. But it’s gotten ridiculous. He hasn’t even returned my phone calls. The last time I talked to him he actually told me he had a date, someone he met in a wine shop in Los Gatos while picking up some port. Not just any port, mind you. A 47-year-old vintage port, one he was supposed to be drinking with me, one I still haven’t seen and probably won’t.

When I inquired of this mystery woman, he didn’t say much, which is unheard of for Vincent. He is not one to keep a secret, especially from me. Perhaps she’s much older or younger. Or horrendously unattractive.

Whatever the case, I have been lonely the past few days. Drew and I only see each other about once a week, and although I always enjoy myself, it’s a bit torturous for me. We linger in this limbo, not exactly friends and not quite lovers in the traditional sense. It has become increasingly more obvious that he is absolutely terrified of falling in love. Not saying at all that that’s what I’m looking for, but when you are seeing someone for whom it doesn’t even seem possible, it can feel like a waste of time; empty comedy.

I am always searching for meaning. I scour people for depth and humanity, and when there is a bleak landscape, my outlook becomes so as well. We send drunken emails back and forth, mine lighthearted, flirty, his cryptic and discouraging. I often vow to never talk to him again, ignore him completely, stand him up even. But then he will surprise me with sweetness that with him, I often imagine impossible. And when I slide onto the leather of his seats and see that elated smile, I melt and transform into something so weak it’s nauseating. But it washes over me and I fall submissive to the feeling. Bound by lust? Languid energy? Good times? I spend several lonesome inebriated hours trying to dissect it all but usually end up distracted by the goodness between us.

I fear that I am ruined.

On a side note, the bar has just been out of hand for the past week. I smell the holidays coming, just waiting around the corner, preparing to dishearten the masses. Half of me hopes I’m scheduled for these supposedly important days. I imagine my mother, ordering noisy people around a Thanksgiving kitchen, while I’m on vicodin slugging Chardonnay, whipping potatoes and explaining to people I see once a year why I haven’t applied to grad school yet or joined the god forsaken “work force.” I remember last Christmas Eve, Vincent and I the only two people at Bo Town, feasting on crab and hot and sour soup, drinking way too much beer and walking around Christmas in the Park making fun of happy (and not so happy) couples.

I remember the warmth of the eggnog enticing me to honestly embrace my depressed father on Christmas Day, his calloused hands on my face, asking me to forgive him.

Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong. I think Gandhi said that.


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