January 1–March 2, 2005 — Pronouncing out laughter

I have this way of seeing someone I haven’t seen in a long time, making eye contact over and over again and then letting her walk by me without saying anything. If we’re confined to the same room for long enough I’ll let her pass me a few more times, calling myself worse names each time I open my mouth to say hello and then change my mind. Then, eventually, maybe, she’ll pass me again, and I’ll touch her arm and say her name with a question mark at the end.

But before that part of New Year’s Eve a girl I’d never met before spent several minutes yelling at me and telling me off while I waited in line for the washroom. I didn’t fight back aside from saying things like, “Stop being so rude, please.” After being shouted at in a washroom line, I figured I could take a few risks and still feel confident that the worst part of my night had already happened. So within the next half hour I had that awkward moment with R         and we were talking for the first time since the summer.

We didn’t talk for very long because her friend picked that moment to become sick. R         left to help her, promising to talk to me more before the end of the night. I left a few minutes later, earlier than expected and without talking to her again.

So I did what anyone would do: I borrowed Amy’s account on one of those social networking web sites and sent R         a message. We arranged to meet up the next week.

We met in front of a bank. It was snowing that day, but I wore canvas shoes anyway because they’re my favourites. She was wearing canvas shoes, too; I liked that. Neither of us wore hoods. I tried not to shiver. We walked for a bit and then went for hot chocolate.

There’s a tension between feeling so comfortable around her and wanting so badly to convince her she should spend more time with me. I end up intensely nervous despite feeling I could tell her pretty much anything.

After walking R         home, I turned around and started towards my apartment. I put my hood up and cuffed my pants a bit so they wouldn’t get any more slush on them.

Afterwards Trisha asked how it went. I told her I didn’t know. I was confused and happy and pessimistic. I went to get food and called her back.

We talked a bit more about how intimidated I was by R        . Then Trisha asked what I was eating.

“A grilled-cheese sandwich and cookies. How come?”

“Yeah, I guess if you’re going to act like a 14–year-old boy about girls, you shouldn’t eat like an adult.”

The next time I met up with R         was more of the same: shivering and trying really hard. We had dinner this time and talked for a lot longer. But I still had no idea.

Sometimes it didn’t really make sense. I knew on the very off chance R         felt the same way, us trying to be more than friends would almost inevitably end badly. But sometimes that was part of the appeal. And it felt like with so much of a chance for things to go wrong, there was a real chance of it working for once. When I thought about trying to be with other girls, I saw endings that were as certain as they were bland. With R         it seemed there was the smallest chance it might make sense. And failing that, it would be more pleasant a disaster than I’ve become used to.

The last time we met up was to see Bright Eyes. We were surrounded by high school-age kids, and I was accused of being tall and mistaken for being young. It was perfect, really.

Eventually I sent R         an email telling her some of how I felt, got the response I expected and felt a bit embarrassed. She was really good about it, though. But maybe it would have been easier if she hadn’t been — when the answer’s no, sometimes it feels better if its form doesn’t make you remember why you liked someone so much in the first place.