"...If we get married, then that projection of the idea is gone," he said.
"Well, yeah. Isn't that great?"
"But it means everything you loved about that person falls away."
"I don't see it that way at all," I said. I picked up the pickled haricot vert that had been floating in his bloody Mary and ate one end. "See, I'm one of the most judgmental people I know."
"Yeah. And you think too much," he said, eying my half eaten green bean.
"Being judgmental makes me insecure," I said. "Or the other way around. One's usually a symptom of the other, you know?"
"Right."
"Well, I love being proven wrong. I love it when something I've written off as bullshit comes back to bite me and prove that it's real. It means I'm actually learning something, and whatever it is I'm learning is way cooler an more important than my prejudice."
"How often can you keep that up?" he asked.
"Not very long," I replied, making a face at the haricot, whose pickley aftertaste began to gag me. "It's why I hate relationships."
And then that second look crossed, the "Ah ha, yes, I dig," moment.
This isn't a city known for it's romance, see. But it is beautiful. The cafe was beautiful. The man across from me was beautiful, as gorgeous a creature as I've ever seen. And I was terrified of him. He was crazy. What kind of a lawyer talks like that, over two bloody Marys and a three mimosas, before going to a meeting at 10:30 AM? I was keen to forgive a man for being crazy. I sought out that granule of truth that might be there when he said he loved me. I didn't want to think the worst of him. I wanted to think that because of our sparkling conversation, he would stop using me. Maybe he would stabilize. Maybe he will change. Sometimes, I can hold out so long for that moment that I'll be proven wrong. I feel alone in a room, asking out loud, to nobody, "Am I right, guys?" I keep thinking that I'll be validated and somewhere out there there's this other voice that's going to say "Yeah. I heard that, man."
"Well, yeah. Isn't that great?"
"But it means everything you loved about that person falls away."
"I don't see it that way at all," I said. I picked up the pickled haricot vert that had been floating in his bloody Mary and ate one end. "See, I'm one of the most judgmental people I know."
"Yeah. And you think too much," he said, eying my half eaten green bean.
"Being judgmental makes me insecure," I said. "Or the other way around. One's usually a symptom of the other, you know?"
"Right."
"Well, I love being proven wrong. I love it when something I've written off as bullshit comes back to bite me and prove that it's real. It means I'm actually learning something, and whatever it is I'm learning is way cooler an more important than my prejudice."
"How often can you keep that up?" he asked.
"Not very long," I replied, making a face at the haricot, whose pickley aftertaste began to gag me. "It's why I hate relationships."
And then that second look crossed, the "Ah ha, yes, I dig," moment.
This isn't a city known for it's romance, see. But it is beautiful. The cafe was beautiful. The man across from me was beautiful, as gorgeous a creature as I've ever seen. And I was terrified of him. He was crazy. What kind of a lawyer talks like that, over two bloody Marys and a three mimosas, before going to a meeting at 10:30 AM? I was keen to forgive a man for being crazy. I sought out that granule of truth that might be there when he said he loved me. I didn't want to think the worst of him. I wanted to think that because of our sparkling conversation, he would stop using me. Maybe he would stabilize. Maybe he will change. Sometimes, I can hold out so long for that moment that I'll be proven wrong. I feel alone in a room, asking out loud, to nobody, "Am I right, guys?" I keep thinking that I'll be validated and somewhere out there there's this other voice that's going to say "Yeah. I heard that, man."
