May 02, 2004
Redefining the Everyday
We woke up early, considering, and the room was warm. It's always warm in here, when the window has been closed all night, and the sun has been up for a while, shining through the east window that stretches from wall to wall, and the beatings of two hearts have punctuated the darkness for so long. I'm okay with the warmth.
"Hungry?" I ask.
"Mmm hmm."
Blueberries. Blueberries are my favorite. I add frozen blueberries to the scone mix I packed along. I seem to be doing that a lot, lately. Packing, I mean; packing things up, and bringing them along. When I made a category for Jen yesterday, to better organize my entries because I'm odd like that, I noticed that basically every entry in the past three weeks has been about her. Then I realized, on an hour-for-hour level, I've probably spent at least 50% of my time during those past three weeks in her dorm.
I see my clothes starting to linger in her closet, though I wonder if I'm leaving them by accident, or if she's really just stealing them on purpose. She does hilarious and sweet things like that.
The scones are toasty and sweet smelling. The oatmeal bubbles away, punctuated by the rehydrating bing cherries, and swirls of brown sugar. A banana is broken cleanly in two.
Two is a nice number, I think.
Breakfast. Movie. Bed. It's always seemed like a nice way to spend a Saturday morning, in theory, but I really had no idea. Disappointment was not in my vocabulary this morning.
Crumbles from the scones line the Powerpuff Girls plate, traces of soy milk grace the Veggie Tales bowl, still-warm coffee sits in my LBCC thermos.
It's been a good morning, and I'm happy. I'm light, too, and in love. I look over, I look into her eyes, I look to see if she knows, I look to see if she believes.
I think, maybe, sometimes, she does. When she's dreaming, perhaps. And then she wakes, I imagine, and looks over at me, and doubts, and wonders why, and convinces herself, somehow, she is wrong.
I wish she wouldn't do that so much.
Later in the day, I discover that I had bookmarked her old Livejournal sometime last year. In February, I think. I remember reading it, too, and then wondering why she stopped writing. I remember wondering about who she was.
Life is strange, and circular, and congruent, and unexpected.
She was in the Town Crier last term, too. Campaigning for Dean, I think. I read about people in the Town Crier all the time, people I don't know, and I go to the Marlboro directory and look up their photo. It helps me believe that I know people at this tiny Liberal Arts school where I don't actually know people. I remember looking at her photo. She's not fond of it, but, at the time, I thought she was cute. (I still do, of course.) Our biggest disagreements seem to be about her.
I wish she would agree with me more.
I rewrote the second email I sent her, twice, so that I could fit in, parenthetically, an open invitation to dinner. I tried to be subtle, tried not to look like I was trying too hard, but I had a crush on her, even then. I'm crazy like that, I guess. But how could I not? With her randomness, and veganness, and cute crush on the French boy. With her talk of vegan cheese, and her talk of me. With the curious and furious affections that follow us around.
I was crazy, too, when I couldn't wait two days, after meeting her, for our first date (that I wasn't even sure was a date at all). I made pitas, and hummus, and dropped by her room. "It's not that far." "I had them lying around."
I'm terrible at these things.
How we waste our precious time
Marching in the picket lines
That surround those striking hearts
And we know who we should love
But we're never certain how
-The Weakerthans
I don't really think I'm good with explaining how I feel. I try and try, but my meaning never comes across close enough to how I intend it. Hours of inconsequential and important talk; four page emails; the unspoken sentiments of cooking dinner every night; the three words muttered and lingered upon at then end of every phone call.
I don't think she gets it, entirely. I don't think she understands, fully. I don't think she believes, completely.
I really should try harder.
Posted by Sean at May 2, 2004 04:59 AM