July 20, 2000

Okay, so, he showed up three hours late. Three hours. I am still reeling from the fact that I was whipped enough (with what? His undying love? Great sex? Um, no.) to let him come over. But I was, and I did.

He showed up at my door with flowers. Half-dead, $2.99 ratty ol' purple things that I had to pretend weren't half-dead and ratty, because, I thought, at least he brought me flowers. At least he made some microscopic effort to say he was sorry, say he sucked, say he knew better. (What was he thinking at 8:00? At 8:30? He couldn't make a 30 second phone call? He couldn't even write a two-sentence email, so that when I logged on, I would at least know what the hell was going on?)

I glared at him. He said he sucked. Yes, he did, I agreed. He said he should have called. Yes, he should have, I concurred. We did this every five minutes or so. It was our running gag. Ha. Ha. Ha.

I didn't want the whole evening to be me pouting and him apologizing, so I let it go (at least, on the outside), and we ordered the food, which he paid for. The bill came to $17 and change, and he gave me a $20 and a $5. I gave the whole thing to the delivery guy. More than a $7 tip. I did this to punish him, but as soon as I closed the door, I felt bad, and told him I'd give him a few dollars -- I shouldn't have given the guy so much. To his credit, he said it was fine, he was late, he deserved it.

We played backgammon. I won. I asked him if he let me. He asked me if he would ever do anything that nice. I said no. He said exactly.

We watched Sex and the City. We made witty observations. We drank wine. Only one bottle between us. Not enough. He wasn't drunk enough to be attracted to me. I wasn't drunk enough to not care.

He tried to fix something on my computer that I didn't think was broken. I rubbed his shoulders. Scratched his neck. Scrunched his hair. He let me. And I, because I always jump at crumbs from him, reveled in this allowance.

We watched reruns of Newsradio. He sat on the floor in front of me. I sat on the couch behind him, my legs straddled on either side of him, massaging his neck. Hating myself the entire time.

He was falling asleep. I told him he could crash at my place. On the couch, if he wanted. He's done it before. He didn't answer right away, so I thought maybe...maybe, he might. And for some reason, I really wanted him to stay.

But, he didn't. He got up and went to the door. I hugged him. I hugged him. I thanked him for coming. I thanked him for the damn dead flowers. And so, he left.

The actual time he was here wasn't horrific. Except, of course, that it was tainted by the fact that I had been sitting by the phone, waiting for him to show up, for three hours. It's like, just when I thought the power dynamic was shifting, that we could just be friends and it wouldn't kill me, he decided to show me who was boss. Clearly, it is him.

I didn't cry, though. Not yesterday. Not last night. Not until tonight, while I was waiting for Survivor to come on, and thinking about what a complete doormat I was. Am.

Sign My Guestbook!