The conflict continues, and that’s great in a way. I am quite certain that my life is a novel waiting to be written, and that each of the strange and intense experiences I’m living now will become hundreds of pages in an unclear future. But the present is simply hard to cope with. What the fuck is going on?
Last Saturday, me and T met for a coffee and a walk. And it was literally just that: a coffee and a walk in the park. It felt good, but left me wondering where things were going. Until that moment, our relationship was merely a sexual arrangement, and that was fine by me. Better to have that part covered, so I could go around looking for a keeper without the anxiety of sexual deprivation. But, then, what was this asexual encounter? “I’m pretty sure that was technically a date… fuck…” I thought. That was not good. That was taking an extra step towards the edge of the cliff of emotional engagement. And falling from that cliff was not in my plans.
Something good came out of that date, though. She seemed down and was asking herself all the deep questions of an existential crisis. Talking with me about these questions gave her a clearer understanding of what she was feeling and, more importantly, also gave her a purpose. That day she decided to apply for a Ph. D. Which was amazing in terms of aiming towards something, but negative in the time department. Or in the “time to fuck Eduardo” department, to be more specific.
Less than an hour ago, I came home after meeting her. She was working on her application for the Ph. D., sitting in a coffee shop nearby her place. We kissed hello awkwardly, as if that were our way to greet. Then we ordered our cappuccinos and sat on her table, waiting for them to be ready. She had a mess there, with all her things spread around in a very academic chaos: pens, markers, documents, a laptop, notes, etc. But I didn’t care about that. I was just too shocked to see her shine, with an enthusiasm that was even contagious. She wouldn’t stop talking about how excited she was about this Ph. D., and of all the things she had done so far in order to get her application ready for the deadline on the 26th. I only listened to ¾ or half of what she was saying, distracted by her smile and the energy pouring out from the whole of her.
The cappuccinos were taking forever, so she stood up and went to talk to the girls behind the counter. I took the time to observe her from a distance, and I loved every second of it. The way in which she moved, the expression of her face when she talked and laughed, the shapes of her body. “Don’t. Please don’t, Eduardo,” I said to myself. “You are a lucky motherfucker, aren’t you? But be careful. Don’t go too far or too deep. Please don’t.”
“I don’t know how to play this,” I said when T came back to the table.
“You mean us?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You know that I can’t have a relationship…”
“Oh, of course I know that! I mean, more like… what happens if I wanna have sex, for example? Should I just write you or what?”
She smiled and played with her hair. “Sure. I don’t like to plan. I like spontaneous things. But I won’t have time until the 26th.”
“Yeah, I know. The application.”
We left the coffee shop and went separate ways on our bikes. There was no goodbye kiss this time, just a friendly hug. As I biked home, I felt needy and lame. The words of Charles Bukowski echoed in the back of my head: “My problem is that I fall in love with every woman I fuck.” For me, it would be an overstatement, but with some traces of truth. I am too sensitive for this world of lust based in detachment and selfishness. I can’t help to seek a meaningful connection, whether it’s through words or sex, or both. And being good with both of them does not help. In this case, it definitely doesn’t.
