they really never do give up, do they? something about relatively-close proximity, or the idealization of memories (and dreams), or nostalgia keeps them circling back as if time were leashed to a lodestone; their lust for the unattainable reignited, the scent sending them baying to their phones, eager to text, call, “catch up” over “coffee” hoping that the stars will align this time (i can only suppose that this is the motivation, but feel free to tell me otherwise, resident menz) despite every indication to the contrary. a testosterone-fueled delusion, but one with its roots gripping only platonia, whatever they may think.
even a few months ago, had you asked me (you didn’t, but i won’t begrudge you), my reaction would have started at “bewildered” and peaked at “exasperated,” complete with the rolling of eyes and deliverance of cruel asides. i had no time for it; no part of me planned to succumb, so why prepare the role, only to flee at intermission, shoving an understudy into the limelight for the second act after indulging in one flowery aria and the candlelit catch-up?
now, in the water-testing first texts and furtive flirtation, i find peculiar comfort. having discerned the rhythm, the song and dance is a little joy in which to fall —i’ve long since shucked any sense of obligation to follow through with anything but what that which was offered first, which is, in this case, my friendship and my conversation. it’s endearing that they keep coming back, from this distance i’ve reached.