2002-12-17

“You know that when I tell you I’m okay, I’m lying, right?”

“Actually, I didn’t know that.”

“Well, I’m telling you. When I tell you I’m okay, I’m lying.”

“All the time?”

“If I’m talking to you, then yes, all the time. Because if I’m talking to you, I’m dying inside.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“That was sort of meant as a compliment.”

“Well, you’re stretching the meaning of the word compliment pretty thin.”

“Please don’t be dense. I’m dying because I love you so much it’s killing me.”

“Oh.”

“'Oh.' Nice. Nice. You know, every time I say anything real to you, I get an “oh.” If I’m lucky. Usually it’s just an empty stare, or “okay,” which is even worse.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, fuck you. You think you’re funny?”

“No, I…I.”

“Don’t, okay? Just don’t.”

“Well, how do you want me to respond?”

“I don’t know. Honestly? I just…I…okay. How do I want you to respond? I want you to tell me you love me. I want you to tell me it’s been hell not being with me. I want you to tell me you think about me all the time, and that you are dying to kiss me every time we go out, every time you see me, right now. I want you to kiss me right now. That’s pretty much how I want you to respond. It’s how I want you to respond to every single thing I ever say to you.”

“Wow. Um…”

“No, wow is not acceptable. Wow makes me feel like a freak. Wow makes me feel like I’ve said too much, or that I’ve scared you, or you’re secretly thinking how you can get the hell away from me without making things worse. Do not say wow. The only thing I want you to do right now is kiss me.”

“Don’t you think it might be a little weird if I just kissed you?”

“Don’t you think this whole conversation is a little weird?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it weird. A little uncomfortable, maybe, but basically in the realm of the everyday.”

“Really? So you have a lot of girls coming up to you telling you how you’re killing them?”

“You never said I was killing you.”

“Yes I did. Indirectly. No, you know what? Not even indirectly. 'I love you so much it’s killing me.' That's pretty direct. You don’t feel any responsibility for this at all, do you?”

“Um, no?”

“'Um, no.' I can’t believe you. You could care less about me.”

“Actually, it’s ‘I couldn’t care less about you.’”

“Oh my god. Fuck you.”

“I’m just sayin’…”

“You are such a fucking asshole. I know what you’re just saying. Jesus Christ. What the hell do I see in you?”

“I would like to know the answer to that myself.”

“Oh my god. Just shut up. Just shut up.”

***

“I was in Union Square today, and it was such a perfect fall day in New York. I was watching the dogs in the dog run, and there were break dancers by the new fountain area with hip-hop music that was good, and some fire dancer woman, and people feeding nuts to the squirrels. It was really, really nice. And I was all happy and loving that I live here, and then all I could think was that it would be so much better if you had been there with me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. I just…I have this urge to tell you everything. I want you to know everything I feel, which, I realize, does nothing to make you fall in love with me, and in fact surely cements the idea in your head that I am crazy, toxic, desperate and pathetic. Which I’m not denying. But part of me clearly thinks that all my insipid honesty is going to make you love me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, so you said. I’m sorry, too. I hate making you feel guilty. I don’t want to be that person. And I don’t want you to pretend to like me out of pity. Not that you would, I know, but it seems like that is the best-case scenario, and it’s not the best case at all. I don’t know. I just want you to know the real me, so that, if, for whatever reason, and in whatever bizarro alternate universe, you really do fall for me, you will be falling for me – for all of me, for the real me. Me me me. Because I don’t think I could handle it if you came back to me – and yes, I know how awful that phrase is, and I know it’s not really applicable, as you were never really with me, but please, just cut me some slack here – if you came back to me, I could not fucking handle it if you left again. So I don’t want to make it easy for you. I don’t want there to be any surprises. You are going to know me better than anyone has ever known me, and if that ensures you hating me, so be it. Because I’ve got nothing to lose where you’re concerned. Not a damn thing.”

“I’m…”

“Yeah, you’re sorry. I know. I’m sorry, too. We’re both just so fucking sorry. Just a pair of sorry-ass losers. But I am sorry. I’m sorry I keep doing this to you. With you. I wouldn’t want to be with me, either. So, thanks for putting up with this as often as you do. Putting up with me. I do appreciate it, even if it kills me. Which, by the way, it is.'

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