Post Love Thirty Two
Months after I’d last seen her, Esther and I made plans to finally watch that movie together. We’d been talking about it for ages. We fell asleep the one time we tried, with laughable results. So there I was again, in her cozy little appartment. I walked into the living room to find her roommate on the couch with a guy, and besides the surprise of the guy being pretty random looking to be so close to the attractive roommate, I wondered how we were supposed to watch our movie now. Esther apologized. She didn’t know they’d be home. We went to her room instead and listened to records until their movie was done. But by that time, we’d gotten to talking about music, and life, and things that keep you in a little room regardless of prior plans. She had asked me if I’d been in her room before. I didn’t know how to take that. I’d been in there at least twice, and at least once when she was sober. It had been months, but apparently she remembered it much less than I did. I wanted to tell myself that some people just think differently, remember differently, but it was too much theory and not enough “she doesn’t care as much as you do”.
Esther had recorded some of the songs she’d been writing, but she was reluctant to let me hear them. She hadn’t told most people about her songs, let alone play them. I don’t remember how she started the sentence exactly, but she said “I don’t mind playing it for you, because I like you”. I looked up at her staring at her laptop screen, those words ringing in limbo for a split second, until I broke the tension with my reply. “Aw… thank you”.
Men are rigged that way. Our extra chromosome exists only to make sure we say the best things to the worst girls, leaving us with nothing if a great girl ever makes a pass at us. Because when we like the girl, we get nervous. Much is at stake. If we don’t care about her, we can say whatever we want, it doesn’t matter if we make it or fall flat on our face. There will be another one. But if we care about you, prepare to hear the worst. We’ll say things like thank you. What the fuck. That was what I came up with. Worse than nothing. I literally could have ignored her, could have just sat there in silence and gotten better results. Maybe she would have looked over at me, and I could have said “I like you too, Esther”. Even if she didn’t mean anything by it, even if she just meant that she enjoys me as a friend with good taste in music, and therefor she will play me her song, even then I would have grabbed hold of the moment and turned it into a situation where she knew I liked her. But I didn’t. I said aw.
I’m sure it was only about three seconds til we started talking about the song, but you know how it feels. That endless, screaming death silence, growing louder and louder like feedback from a guitar, until anxiety has gripped you whole. What the fuck was that? What did she mean? Why did you say that? Stop thinking about this! And your thoughts rage on in your silent, decent composure, terrified of mistakes, making sure nothing happens.
We ended up on the couch after the others left. She started to talk about her relationship. Lots of cryptic messages. Ever since it happened. I was so foolish. All the pieces fell together now, in my pathetic excuse for a brain. She’d been fighting with her boyfriend. He cheated on her. She dumped him. She’d suddenly invited me over to her place to watch a movie after months of no contact, single and ready to fuck, ready for love, she told me she liked me. And I said thanks.
Esther, I didn’t know. You didn’t tell me about your boyfriend until after you made the move. I was taken by surprise. I fucked it up. You’re twenty five years old, and in a perfect world you would have learned by now that all the guys that really like you are going to fuck things up like that. But I know you’ve spent your years with a lousy boyfriend who taught you nothing. I know you’ve dismissed me now. I’m just a guy that doesn’t get it, a guy that denied you, a guy that just wants to be your friend. I know you tried the next guy. You haven’t messaged me back. It’s been months, again. And it’s all just practice. Get beat by your own mistakes and remember not to make them again. Suffer the consequences alone in bed at night, jerking off to what could have been. Let the hope die from your heart, let the cum dry from your loins as she ignores another call. Let it burn you, let it drag you down, live through another bad mood day. Try to ignore the way it makes you feel until you turn on yourself and say no, don’t ignore it. Face it. This is how she makes you feel. This is what happens when you try. This is what aiming too high feels like. If you ever had a chance, if that “I like you” really meant what it might have meant, then you fucked it up, and that’s the end of it. Stop trying. Remember what happened with Carole? There’s no second chances. Stop it. Let go. Forget Esther.
Ofcourse you can’t forget her. Esther is perfect. You’ve wanted her for years. It haunts you. You message her again. She replies. You talk about hanging out. She stops replying. It starts over. You hurt. You fall into depression. You’re gone. Every few weeks the process repeats, just you and a girl you could never have, a girl now crazy with heartbreak, probably drinking more, probably fucking more, probably not thinking about you very often.
