K.

“So… what is your type? You never answered my question.”

“You.”

I giggled. “That was awkward laughter by the way.” As if somehow narrating what I was doing would somehow lessen the impact. K kept throwing around the word ‘love’ like it was going out of style. By narrating my actions I felt I could fill the silence emanating from my outstanding lack of feeling. Love is something I’ve felt once, and I remember it only vaguely now.

K nodded. “I know I’m not going to get what I want from you. The only thing I can do is be a best friend to you.”

I fell silent.

“You know, I don’t really have anything in common with any of my friends. I go to the movies alone a lot, go to concerts alone, too. It’s hard talking sometimes because no one really knows what I’m talking about.” I’m never sure if this is supposed to elicit sympathy or demonstrate how ‘independent’ I am. I’m a one-woman show after all.

“What if I told you I want to be the one you talk to? I’d tolerate whatever it is you like. Then we can talk about it.”

It’s really not the same is it? If you have to tell someone what it is you want to talk about. But the prospect seems enticing. Sort of like, ‘you mean I won’t have to do all these things alone?’ but secretly knowing you’re really just dragging someone along versus this being an activity they’re actually invested in of their own volition. It’s really not the same is it?

So I said, “That’s the ideal partner isn’t it? Doing things together.” And here I whispered, “It’d be mutual you know? We can do things together.”

“I know.” K likes brevity for maximum impact.

K paid for dinner.¬†We drove back to my car, at K’s house. We hugged. I started to walk away.

“Hey! So you know, today’s my birthday.”

I turned back. “You’re kidding. You mean you treated me to dinner on your birthday?!”

“How mad are you?”

“I’m not mad.”

“I wanted to spend my birthday with you.”

This time I hugged K for longer all while remarking to myself just how little I felt.

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