trying to sleep the sleep of the just

It was our first date. She was on her fourth cosmopolitan. I was sipping some oak-softened, full-bodied house wine.

“See, now, you’re an introvert,” she said. “You don’t give a f**k, excuse my French, about people. You’re not out there playing kissy-kissy with everybody; you don’t have time for that s**t. Everything’s internal with you,” she tapped on her chest several times. “You live up here,” she pointed to her temple. “But there’s nothing wrong with that. That’s you.

Everybody’s different. And the reason people are comfortable around you is you’re safe. You don’t rock boats, you keep to yourself, you’re not gonna get all up in people’s faces and challenge them because you don’t have time for that! You couldn’t care less! I know. My son’s an introvert. And, I

think introverted men have a much harder time of it socially. And in the business world. Much harder than women. Most introverted men I know are pretty much,” she shrugged. “insufficient… I don’t know how else to say it.”

That’s when I began to feel nauseous.

She described her last boyfriend as “an enormous dominant male,” her parents as “downwind, out of sight and full of impatience,” her siblings as “wandering visibly about,” her friends as “more greedy than deadly,” and herself as “beyond help and hope.”

By the time the check arrived, we decided to split it because I was having trouble staying awake, and she was through emasculating me.

As we drove home, she said, “I wish I could rewind my life and do it all over again. There’s a lot of things I would have done differently.”

I nodded.

“Are you mad at me?” she said.

“No…”

“You know why I wore pink tonight?”

“Why?”

“Pink is the color of divine love.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said.

She stared out the window. “I’m tired of dividing my affection between sex and love. Between life and death. I hope you can

be much more jovial the next time we speak.”

When we turned into her apartment complex, I pulled into the only vacant parking space in front of her building.

She got out of the car, didn’t say goodbye, just slammed the door and walked toward her apartment.

I probably should have waited until she was safely inside before I drove away, but I didn’t. I couldn’t throw the car in reverse fast enough.

The next day, there was a message from her on my answering machine:

“I don’t know, I feel bad, almost. You know what I’m saying. I kind of feel, like, just like, oh my God, this… I’m this poor little girl who might have some serious issues I might not be ready to face.”

There were about thirty seconds of dead air before she resumed her self-analysis.

“I think I can drink and use my drinking as an excuse to possibly let out my real self sometimes.”

More dead air.

“When I have alcohol in me, it’s different…so is that the alcohol, or is that me? I don’t understand.”

It’s you, baby.

“Well,” she continued. “We probably shouldn’t see each other again. I guess I’ll leave that up to you. Vaya con Dios, hombre, que sera sera, mas o menos…”

I deleted her message and went to bed.