We are strangers

I'll admit - perhaps for the second time, maybe the third - that I felt hurt when we finally met.

I was hurt because I was expecting we'd have a long, good conversation. Granted, there never was a chance of us doing that, because it wasn't just the two of us in a coffee shop, but fifteen of us in a restaurant that serves beer. Granted, also, that we've not really talked for a long time before we met. Granted, we had a lot to catch up with.

Granted, I have long learned to manage my expectations, about how the things I always think I would like always turn out to be a dud when I actually get it - perhaps a victim of anticipation, or perhaps my urge to be uncharacteristically optimistic. Granted, I didn't even expect this, but there I was, listening in to conversations, and there you were, a surprise visitor, and there we were, strangers, like we always were.

We are strangers who spent nights on keyboards talking about a lot of things. Hazelnuts and crêpes. Supercrushes and distractingly cute femmes. Metric and Rilo Kiley. We are strangers who spent afternoons, occasionally, on the phone without any idea what's going on. Still mostly on keyboards. Shortcuts and long cuts. Mountains and mountain bikes. Words. Lots of them.

I just feel sad, you know? And I have long seen the best of friends drift apart, for what looks like no apparent reason, and this, despite them working hard, and maybe not looking like it, to keep things together. Not that we were, but we were, in a way. But we are strangers, not half-strangers as I first put it, and I realized this when I saw you somewhere and did not want to say hi because, really, there's nothing to get from it.

Of course, you could say, and you would say, that I could always start again. But who stops in the middle of a marathon, walks back to the starting line, and sprints again?

And your responses...

Post a Comment