Confessio Admiratores

She tells me, perfectly honest, how bad she felt about what she said and wishes she could have said something different.

In the din of oyster joint I have no idea where these feelings of hers are coming from, as I’m in a cloud of vapor and likewise was when I received her texts.

“You should be flattered,” she says. I don’t know what she’s talking about. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

I attempt to assuage her, albeit a bit jerkily, as we’re waiting for our table. I’m picking up self-doubt and pity from her, but then she lays it on me: “You were basically a crush.”

Now she has really given it to me. If I were floating around while she wrangled these unseen feelings, she’s now thrown them off and, without a choice, I catch her lob and plummet to the ground.

We sit down to the table because it is ready and the waitress, frazzled, has been curt and pert to our throng clogging up the walkway. Our party, blithe, drifts to the seats because, alas, they are in clouds themselves. I ogle the menu, the table to my left, and, lastly, the harem of black-clad busboys that are oblivious to my eyes.

She is sitting to my right, all amirth, considerably lighter. A moment of gladness passes at the sight of her unburdened. Another door closes, and the open patio at my back is a windy chasm.




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