I’m allowed to call Jenny a cripple. She got her foot run over by a golf cart and has to wear a boot.
So Jenny picked me up for lunch around 11:30, and we ate lunch at Qdoba’s. I immediately dived into good conversation–asking anything and everything that would give me a bead on Jenny’s state of mind and being. And since she seemed equally curious, I gave as good as I got, although it was awkward for me to talk about Terre Haute friends. I’ve always made a point of not chattering about Charlotte friends to Terre Haute people–I tend to assume a lack of interest, and unless something pressing occurs, talking about Charlotte friends seems like fixating on the “past”, because they aren’t there with me, in my world at that moment. I do, of course, think about my Charlotte friends when I’m at Rose, but it becomes something like a background process–it takes up mips, but it usually isn’t something the program currently in the forefront needs to know about.
So I talked about Terre Haute people. I miss them already, which both does and does not surprise me. I am surprised at how attached I’ve become in seven weeks to Bob, Luke, C., and even Dr. 7 (I’m leaving out Mae because we were cool a long time ago), but I shouldn’t be. I live for this attachment, and I’m in my worst, most depressed state of mind when I shun these connections. So the twist in my gut that tells me I’m missing my lab time with the girls, lunches with Luke and Dr. 7, or Bad Movie Nights with Bob is to be expected, really.
I have to wonder, however, what kind of picture I painted for Jenny. When I am asked, “What is C./Luke/Bob/Mae like?” I cannot answer because of how I tend to think in terms of tastes and flavors. I’ve found I can’t answer many questions about how things are or what things are like because of my increasing tendency to be okay with simply feeling things rather than needing to quantify them into language-limited packets. But Jenny didn’t ask that directly. I told stories of fun (and not so fun) times this summer, and from those, she gathered some impression of the people around which I choose to spend my time.
I want to turn around and ask her, “So what is Jenn/Mae/Bob/Luke/C./Dr.7 like?” and see what answer I get. What did my tone of voice reveal, and my body language, and my word choice? I want to play with my concept of “filters”.
My, I’m feeling reflective tonight.
After lunch, we went to a nearby deserted park and sat smack in the middle of a soccer field. As we sweated off any water we’d consumed at lunch, we talked more, easily picking up and examining a variety of topics.
Then came coffee. Or rather, slightly disgusting “frappés”. I think I’m spoiled by non-chain coffee houses at this point. We commandeered a couch and chair, and talked for a few hours, again with the same ease that, quite frankly, soothed my lonely heart. That’s a pretty shitty thing to feel, given all the companionship I’ve had during these summer weeks, but I cannot be completely honest about some things about Rose people with Rose people–there are some limbs on which I will not go out, and there are some disclosures even I will not make. I can selectively tell some people some things and others other things, but picking and choosing who to tell my thoughts and feelings is tiring. The one person with whom I could be most honest without fear of judgmental backlash is also rather difficult to pencil in time with.
When it’s all said and done, I’m finding I’m having a very hard time shifting my “energy” away from Rose folks to the folks here.
Then The Cripple and I did dinner. (See, I know she perked up just now.)
We went to Friday’s. We sat at a table; there was an older man sitting at the table behind me that I made note of because he was sitting alone and he directed friendly, acknowledging body language our way when we approached.
And then came our waiter. Sigh. Now, I’ll write this, knowing it’s weird to do so (because Luke has recently acquired one of these), but Goatees. Are. Hot. Just hot. Just… damn.
So here comes our waiter. Scruffy-ish Abercrombie and Fitch hairstyle. Solid build. Direct eyes. Tongue piercing. Goatee. Smile. Dear god, is this man looking at me? Should I be expected to respond coherently to his questions?
I choke out that I’ll drink what Jenny’s drinking (water), because he’s looking at me and he is damned sexy and shouldn’t he be looking at Jenny instead? Isn’t this how this normally works?
I don’t remember if Jenny is laughing at me at this early point of the story. Once higher-brain functions return, I attempt to decide if I want meat tonight or not. As in, chicken fingers vs. meatless salad. Perv.
So conversation resumes, and is lighter at this point, touching on the sexual liberation of mutual acquaintances. Waiter comes back, and I manage to order chicken fingers. So does Jenny. I tell the waiter it’ll be on one bill.
I take a minute to recover what aplomb I can. I know Jenny was laughing at this point.
The man behind me leaves, giving us a cheerful “Goodnight, ladies” as he does so.
The waiter brings our food, and informs us that said gentleman has paid for our meal in full. Damn. Hot damn, in fact. The waiter showed us the receipt, and something like “Years to come” was written on it and underlined by whoever had signed it. Wow. Sheer awesomeness.
And wait. Why didn’t Jenny get to read the receipt? Oh, because he only showed it to me. He kept looking at me. *blushblushblush*.
So higher brain functions return again and we begin to eat. I’m hunkering down in my chair and blushing furiously because Jenny is telling me that this guy is watching me from the waiter’s station, and the whole thing is adolescent and childish and girly but I don’t really care because I’m having fun even though [and because] Jenny is laughing at me.
The waiter comes back and offers me a glass of ice because all the ice melted in my water. Insert much picking because Jenny’s ice had melted, too, and she didn’t get any more ice. *blush*
So dinner concludes, and we decline dessert. Our “check” comes; it’s handwritten, showing we owed nothing, and is complete with a tongue-out smiley. Now, I’m looking at this piece of paper slipped into a typical check-holder book, and apparently Jenny had the same thought as I did, because she picks it up and checks it front and back for a phone number. There was none, of course, but I got a kick out the entire thing, and I hope he [and all the other servers] did, too, because she wasn’t subtle at all about checking for a number.
At this point, it’s heading towards 21:00 and Jenny and I decide to part ways, with me promising to blog the experience in some entertaining style.