I keep waiting for the next shoe to drop, wondering if there
will be one, thinking maybe it really is over, and that we have something of an
uncomfortable peace where we can pass each other in the office and avoid any other
kind of contact.
If so, I’m back where I started, perhaps just a little wounded,
an old man who lived out a brief fantasy which briefly turned into a nightmare.
Old men should not indulge in such fantasy; this is a young
man’s game.
Nothing is too clear. I look for clues as to what to expect,
but expect the whole thing really ends when she says it does, and I read her
poetry the way a Gypsy might tea leaves or a weather forecaster does meteorological
maps, brilliant stuff, mostly about pain and indignity.
The only thing real is the silence and the only
communication are the occasional business emails she forwards, the only safe
place where we can maintain contact.
But this being a weekend, that avenue is closed; no excuse
to forward anything to my private email account or vice versa.
Distance and silence are my only defense. I don’t know what
she wants or if she does either.
But I guess it doesn’t matter; she has moved on.
Being in a different office from her helps, although I feel
trapped down south, not a member of the fraternity. But that helps, too. The
hard time comes when I have to travel north to that office, and hopefully, the
contact will be minimal, and less hostile, if never warm.
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