May 8, 2012 § 85 Comments
From yesterday’s Times:-
After the mealy-mouthed text from Surprise Twinkle, friends rightly told me to press the Delete button. I managed it rather admirably, I thought. Of course, I carried on thinking about him a bit. I wondered what the whole episode had been about and, in a low-key sort of way, was vaguely haunted by the mystery: so keen, and then so not-so-keen. The pain went and I was left with the dregs of curiosity and deflation. I took it as read that I would never hear from him again and I was beginning the disappointing business of picking myself up and getting on with life, as plankton always must.
Three weeks of convincing silence later, I was with a friend in the cafe, minding my own business, and – ping! – his name came up on my smartphone. Excitement of course, but time had made inroads into its healing process and the excitement was suitably contained. Then I read the email and it was so lacking in consequence that I thought it must have come instead from Long Shot, that past master of unengaged communication. But no, it was definitely from ST. Such different men, and yet cheek by jowl on the spectrum of emotional constipation. Three weeks later, and I receive just two tiny sentences: how was I and an update on a minor frustration of his. The sum total of nine words.
Why? Either push that boat out and run to a complete line – even two, eh? – which incorporates some felicity or merriment or wit or unthreatening suggestion that we might get together again in some capacity – even a cup of coffee, for God’s sake. Or bloody well just leave me alone to push on in peace. But don’t give me this uptight nothingness, so lily-livered it doesn’t even propose straight-forward friendship in any inviting way, let alone a sexual relationship. I have more flirtatious banter from the sweet young fellow at the cafe who makes my latte each day. I read ST’s apology for a missive again, and was totally flummoxed by what could have possibly been going through his head?
Clearly, those paltry words did not merit any sort of analysis. Still, I half-heartedly texted back the following day, friendly but not suggesting a get-together. No response! So doggedly predictable. But he is going away so, genuinely no longer caring enough to fret over the rightness or wrongness of it, and for an experiment, I eventually rang to say goodbye.
So glad I did! He was so underwhelming, it turned me almost right off him. Even I, the Original Plankton, thought I deserve better than this.
And it takes quite a lot for me to feel that way.