you just had to see her
you just had to see her
you just had to see her
you just had to see her
you just had to see her, you know that she'll break you in two
He pulled up to my house and rather than idling in the middle of the street, waiting while I hopped out and went inside (as is customary when giving someone a ride home) he pulled to the curb, shifted into park, looked at me and said I'm going to turn this car off. He turned it off, continued looking at me and queried '...Awkward...?', with a perfect arch of the brow. It was, in fact, far from awkward. It was exactly how and the only way in which it could have been a perfect approach to what was about to come. What was about to come had been simmering for quite some time and at this stage, I am not so naive that I do not see it when it's on its way, and I knew that this would happen, and I knew that it would happen the moment we sat down six hours ago. So I said I don't know, are you going to kiss me? Because up until then, he hadn't. He had stared at my mouth while I talked and he'd stretched his arm toward me unnecessarily when we were across the table from each other and he'd asked questions that indicated Interest, not just in the conversation we were having but in the things that might have contributed to the statements I was making during the conversation we were having. Interest in me. Interest in the way we might mesh and clash, in the things that I thought about the things that he thought. All of this in what I have to believe was a very casual manner, otherwise I will gallop arrogantly toward the idea that all this time, he was marking me and focusing his sights. That's not something that I like to think about, because that's not something that I like to be wrong about. I do not have the requisite fortitude to accept that as fact, but I do have the presence to know, in the back of my skull, that while it may be simply that he is an excellent conversationalist, that sometimes it was different. That it was, in fact, me. And that that evening, it was only me. This was good news, and did great things to my little heart and the untended garden of my self-esteem. I liked feeling that. I liked feeling it when I only thought it, and suddenly I knew it, and I liked it even more.
I had not quite finished grinning that question at him when suspicion indeed became fact, and the remainder of the evening went just...swimmingly. Remarkably. Noteworthily, which is now a word. It could not have gone better unless we had been abducted by aliens, because then what a fabulous story.
Taking him out of it personally, because all I really ever do is talk about myself, I wonder if the things that make us attractive to one another might be the things that sometimes keep us from one another. I am attracted to you because you are confident and level headed and seem to not have that quality that makes me think you're going to leave your toothbrush (or earring) at the first possible opportunity. Well, that confidence stems from a hard-earned knowledge that I can, and will, do this with or without you. With that knowledge comes an aloof reluctance to engage, because why would I put myself at risk when I don't have to, because I know that I don't need to? Read: I will never call you, and we won't have this again. That levelheadedness comes from years of weighing risk vs reward and personal vs community benefit in every arena of my life, from examining the excruciating possibilities of every Choose Your Own Horrifying Relationship Adventure and determining whether the slim odds of stupefying happiness are worth the mathematical likelihood that we might just get hit by an asteroid. Read: I am not going to assume that what you want right now is what you want tomorrow, and I will never call you, and we won't have this again. I don't seem to have that quality because I am almost mortally afraid of being what you were afraid of. I don't seem to have that quality because I don't have that quality, because I will almost certainly dig a tunnel from under you rather than give you the opportunity to bury me in my own stupid quest for happiness. Read: I will never fucking call you, and we won't do this again. AND YES, I know what this is called, and I have not yet progressed past it. It has modified away from angst and into the realm of suffocating practicality. For all practical intents and purposes, that was just about perfect and I am not not not about to turn it into something...Awkward?... . Because I don't need to, and you know this about me and find it attractive and maybe I am projecting but then, we never really talked about that.
Practicality and rationality and the pathological need to examine every fucking interaction I have aside, the reality is that I am a woman, and you are a man, and I have a deep seated need to have...you. Because now that I have, briefly, had the thing that I wanted, I want to have it not-briefly. And I am not talking about sex here. Not just sex, anyway. All the things that contributed to making that good are the things that I want to pull from the fucking clouds that start at your fingertips and end at mine, and fashion into something tangible. The way you talk and the things you say and the questions you ask, those fucking questions! that no one has ever, ever asked me before, and the insights that seem to come from fucking nowhere, I do not want those to languish in a cauldron of what-now. Because I know what you are after, and I know that I have it. You, also, know that I have it, which is why you came to me to get it. And the shit of it is that in pursuing it from you myself, I will likely no longer have it myself, and then what? What now, Solomon? Because there is also that part of me that would really like to be a ridiculously fantastic fling. Really really. That part of me that knows that you'll think about this and remember how FUCKING AWESOME THAT WAS, she was such a good idea and I knew that this was a thing that I should do. And that I could leave it alone, there, and be content. And that we will have suitably engaged conversation and that when we flirt now, it is with a knowing glance rather than a questioning. And that I will lack for nothing that I didn't lack previously, and that I will mark this entire thing as an Oh man, that was well planned and perfectly executed and high fives all around.
In a related story, I also want to throw you into a wall and dip my fingers in your brain and take you apart and cut your face off and fashion it into a stunningly cute pair of bloomers, because I am that attracted to you on every level and I selfishly want the things that make me feel that way to be available to me any time and every time I please. And there seem to be a lot of you out there. A fucking very lot. And it does not, at all, have to be as complicated as all that. I don't have to be in love with you to be in love with the way I feel when you're around.
you just had to see her
you just had to see her
you just had to see her, you know that she'll break you in two
He pulled up to my house and rather than idling in the middle of the street, waiting while I hopped out and went inside (as is customary when giving someone a ride home) he pulled to the curb, shifted into park, looked at me and said I'm going to turn this car off. He turned it off, continued looking at me and queried '...Awkward...?', with a perfect arch of the brow. It was, in fact, far from awkward. It was exactly how and the only way in which it could have been a perfect approach to what was about to come. What was about to come had been simmering for quite some time and at this stage, I am not so naive that I do not see it when it's on its way, and I knew that this would happen, and I knew that it would happen the moment we sat down six hours ago. So I said I don't know, are you going to kiss me? Because up until then, he hadn't. He had stared at my mouth while I talked and he'd stretched his arm toward me unnecessarily when we were across the table from each other and he'd asked questions that indicated Interest, not just in the conversation we were having but in the things that might have contributed to the statements I was making during the conversation we were having. Interest in me. Interest in the way we might mesh and clash, in the things that I thought about the things that he thought. All of this in what I have to believe was a very casual manner, otherwise I will gallop arrogantly toward the idea that all this time, he was marking me and focusing his sights. That's not something that I like to think about, because that's not something that I like to be wrong about. I do not have the requisite fortitude to accept that as fact, but I do have the presence to know, in the back of my skull, that while it may be simply that he is an excellent conversationalist, that sometimes it was different. That it was, in fact, me. And that that evening, it was only me. This was good news, and did great things to my little heart and the untended garden of my self-esteem. I liked feeling that. I liked feeling it when I only thought it, and suddenly I knew it, and I liked it even more.
I had not quite finished grinning that question at him when suspicion indeed became fact, and the remainder of the evening went just...swimmingly. Remarkably. Noteworthily, which is now a word. It could not have gone better unless we had been abducted by aliens, because then what a fabulous story.
Taking him out of it personally, because all I really ever do is talk about myself, I wonder if the things that make us attractive to one another might be the things that sometimes keep us from one another. I am attracted to you because you are confident and level headed and seem to not have that quality that makes me think you're going to leave your toothbrush (or earring) at the first possible opportunity. Well, that confidence stems from a hard-earned knowledge that I can, and will, do this with or without you. With that knowledge comes an aloof reluctance to engage, because why would I put myself at risk when I don't have to, because I know that I don't need to? Read: I will never call you, and we won't have this again. That levelheadedness comes from years of weighing risk vs reward and personal vs community benefit in every arena of my life, from examining the excruciating possibilities of every Choose Your Own Horrifying Relationship Adventure and determining whether the slim odds of stupefying happiness are worth the mathematical likelihood that we might just get hit by an asteroid. Read: I am not going to assume that what you want right now is what you want tomorrow, and I will never call you, and we won't have this again. I don't seem to have that quality because I am almost mortally afraid of being what you were afraid of. I don't seem to have that quality because I don't have that quality, because I will almost certainly dig a tunnel from under you rather than give you the opportunity to bury me in my own stupid quest for happiness. Read: I will never fucking call you, and we won't do this again. AND YES, I know what this is called, and I have not yet progressed past it. It has modified away from angst and into the realm of suffocating practicality. For all practical intents and purposes, that was just about perfect and I am not not not about to turn it into something...Awkward?... . Because I don't need to, and you know this about me and find it attractive and maybe I am projecting but then, we never really talked about that.
Practicality and rationality and the pathological need to examine every fucking interaction I have aside, the reality is that I am a woman, and you are a man, and I have a deep seated need to have...you. Because now that I have, briefly, had the thing that I wanted, I want to have it not-briefly. And I am not talking about sex here. Not just sex, anyway. All the things that contributed to making that good are the things that I want to pull from the fucking clouds that start at your fingertips and end at mine, and fashion into something tangible. The way you talk and the things you say and the questions you ask, those fucking questions! that no one has ever, ever asked me before, and the insights that seem to come from fucking nowhere, I do not want those to languish in a cauldron of what-now. Because I know what you are after, and I know that I have it. You, also, know that I have it, which is why you came to me to get it. And the shit of it is that in pursuing it from you myself, I will likely no longer have it myself, and then what? What now, Solomon? Because there is also that part of me that would really like to be a ridiculously fantastic fling. Really really. That part of me that knows that you'll think about this and remember how FUCKING AWESOME THAT WAS, she was such a good idea and I knew that this was a thing that I should do. And that I could leave it alone, there, and be content. And that we will have suitably engaged conversation and that when we flirt now, it is with a knowing glance rather than a questioning. And that I will lack for nothing that I didn't lack previously, and that I will mark this entire thing as an Oh man, that was well planned and perfectly executed and high fives all around.
In a related story, I also want to throw you into a wall and dip my fingers in your brain and take you apart and cut your face off and fashion it into a stunningly cute pair of bloomers, because I am that attracted to you on every level and I selfishly want the things that make me feel that way to be available to me any time and every time I please. And there seem to be a lot of you out there. A fucking very lot. And it does not, at all, have to be as complicated as all that. I don't have to be in love with you to be in love with the way I feel when you're around.
posted by machine central at 11:14 PM
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