EFFORT

The work begins as soon as she walks through the door—the real work, that is, the hard work of
keeping so many contradictory impulses and actions tied down. One would hope one would be
past this sort of adolescent effluvium when we get wounded, but alas, that’s never the case, and
the hard work is pretending otherwise. But pretending is important, because if I let myself do
something else, I’m not sure what that would be. Better to sit, listen to the trite patter all around
us, nurse some wine, and assume she feels the same.

I want to give in, but like I said, it’s a bad idea. I can’t act on them all, so which emotion
wins? Do I wind up in a supreme display of suavery, and sweep her off her feet again? Seems
unlikely, I burned through what little suaveness I have weeks ago in a drunken flurry of texting.
An earnest outpouring of hurt seems more likely, some painful spiral of embarrassment that
culminates in me crying into her knees, or an explosion of recrimination, pointing fingers and
demands to know “Why?”

The worst part, should any of those happen, everyone in the room, who all have suspicions, will
know. So as hard as it is, I sit, and hold back.

When relief comes, it comes as more work, more withholding. It starts with complaining.
He’s complaining, making demands, issuing ultimatums, insisting the rest of us kowtow to his
prejudices and eccentricities. Power play, or cry for attention, or whatever is going on in his
head, it pushes what’s going on in mine aside, because now I can be straight up annoyed and
angry. But still, I can’t let fly with everything, burn the bridge and the road too, clue him in on
his real value, and the things he doesn’t seem to see that are obvious to everyone else. That’d be fun, but fleeting. But fun. But no, not worth the social cost. Nice to be distracted, though.

But then more reasonable heads speak. They reframe, bring their own perspectives, attitudes,
and whatnot and whatever. So, for the sake of the group, I back down, give up my empty little
victory over the evening. Then it’s time for her to go—she stands and says goodbyes, and I make sure the porch light is on. She meets my eyes, and makes a little joke about my eccentricities.

So maybe my efforts weren’t for nothing. Maybe next time it’ll be easier.

List of 15:
Coffee (haw haw)
Light
Travel
Morning
The horizon

Injury
Seasons
Petty fear
Neighborhoods
Motion
Noise
Expectations
Play
Fire
Community