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. 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 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 that 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 shouldn't see each other again. 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.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

Yep. Turn the page. Go on down the road. A relationship with her would surely cause ulcers... or worse. Get a dog and take up fishing--maybe you'll meet a nice fisher lady who digs your quietness. (I'm quiet, too) A good one, Philip.