Yes, You Could Say We Know Each Other
I can picture this: him pausing for a moment, thumb resting on the call button, wondering why he has to collect himself. I can sense the swing in his emotions as she tells him she's already having dinner with someone, but he could join in anyway. I don't know what his car looks like, but I imagine it swerving restlessly past rows of occupied lots as he agonises over his thwarted chances tonight.
I feel the lump in his throat as our eyes meet.
For the rest of the dinner, I can only wonder about the extent of his inner struggle: trying to inch his way further into her favour while delicately maintaining a professional distance with me. It's a clumsy performance. But I help him--and perhaps myself--by hijacking the conversation. What both of us separately hoped would be a night with her then becomes a night between us, cordially discussing the intersections in our lives; plumbing the depths of our useless but endless troves of general knowledge; wandering into philosophical territory without really disagreeing (but of course; I wouldn't dream of disagreeing with him). And through it all, she sits on the sidelines, listening in.
It should've made me angry. Instead, it was thoroughly refreshing, not only because of the privilege of seeing him with his defences lowered, but also because being able to engage him in conversation made me feel smarter than I've felt in years (he is a really intelligent person after all; just look at where it's gotten him in life). I parted ways with them feeling strangely invigorated and pleased with myself.
This feeling stayed with me until many hours later, when I imagined her closing the door of his car at the foot of her flat.
I feel the lump in his throat as our eyes meet.
For the rest of the dinner, I can only wonder about the extent of his inner struggle: trying to inch his way further into her favour while delicately maintaining a professional distance with me. It's a clumsy performance. But I help him--and perhaps myself--by hijacking the conversation. What both of us separately hoped would be a night with her then becomes a night between us, cordially discussing the intersections in our lives; plumbing the depths of our useless but endless troves of general knowledge; wandering into philosophical territory without really disagreeing (but of course; I wouldn't dream of disagreeing with him). And through it all, she sits on the sidelines, listening in.
It should've made me angry. Instead, it was thoroughly refreshing, not only because of the privilege of seeing him with his defences lowered, but also because being able to engage him in conversation made me feel smarter than I've felt in years (he is a really intelligent person after all; just look at where it's gotten him in life). I parted ways with them feeling strangely invigorated and pleased with myself.
This feeling stayed with me until many hours later, when I imagined her closing the door of his car at the foot of her flat.
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