I Liked to Astonish Him

I’m back in Boston, not for very long. I have about a week to pack up everything I own again. For reasons unknown to me, I haven’t started packing, despite having been home for a day and a half... I still need to inform my landlady of my pending move. The fact that I haven’t told her is unfair to her, but I’ve been waiting to tell her in person, and we have strangely opposite schedules. I will have to write her a note.

I got a surprise phone call from an ex on Tuesday. I don’t even have his real name in my phone, just the old screen name he used to use on ICQ. He probably still uses it, come to think of it. I remember before we started dating, I asked him his ICQ number and he rattled it off quickly, jokingly, ten or twelve digits, knowing I didn’t have a pen or a piece of paper at hand, and then ran off to class. Later he tried to slip me a piece of paper -- “my ICQ number, if you still want to chat” -- I smiled at him and recited the numbers from memory. I still wonder if my capacity for holding numbers in my head, my sense of patterns, or my spacial awareness was what really intrigued him the most about me.

There was a time once when I was sorting pennies by year -- he was doing something else at the table, I don’t remember what -- he looked up and noticed that after I laid a penny on the table, I never had to move it to fit another into the timeline. They all fit perfectly, end to end, even with gaps as big as fourteen years, there was the perfect amount of space between for thirteen pennies, and no system of measurement other than my eyes. I remember liking the astonishment on his face. I liked to surprise him with strange talents.

In some ways, I wonder if our relationship failed because I ran out of ways to intrigue him, and I spent more time trying to invent new things than I did trying to understand him or the way we were together. The penny thing became a party trick, something he showed off to his friends and family.

Looking back on it six years later... I realize we were both depressed, and we both reacted to our depression in ways that became harmful to the other person. We didn’t part on a good note, and he has remained the only ex to evoke the adrenaline commonly associated with the decision to fight or to flee.

So when my phone rang, I was startled. I answered, glad to be alone in the house, and my voice sounded strangely casual. He also sounded casual. Apparently, this was to be a phone call during which we both pretended that there hadn’t been six years since our last conversation. (Which, in fact, there had not. We had an accidental run-in last June at our favorite coffee place, which resulted in about 30 minutes of awkward conversation. I was very glad to have K there with me; two against one made it much easier not to run away.)

At first there didn’t really seem to be a purpose to his calling me, but after a while I detected a faint note of apology in his tone. He mentioned finding notes from when we were dating, which I am exceedingly embarrassed about, and even came close to apologizing for -- some of them were just, well, scary, and I regret them. But he went on to say he was reminded of our relationship, and how it changed him. He mentioned playing games and manipulating people, and how after we broke up he decided not to play the games anymore, to go through an ‘unlearning’ of sorts.

It was the closest thing to an apology I’ve ever heard from him, and I have to say, even six years later... it does make me feel better. I mean, all these years I’ve sort of looked at our downward spiral as being a sort of mutual failure, but I never knew how he felt about it. I always sort of thought he blamed the whole thing on me.

So, yeah. That gave me a lot to think about on my drive back.

But being who I am, I called him today. I don’t know if this was from a desire to become friends or just the need to speak on my own terms. He didn’t answer right away, and after three rings I hung up, chastising myself for being so... I don’t even know what adjective to use. I typed “stupid”, then “optimistic”, then “needy”, then “masochistic”...but none of those words are the right word. “Friendly”, perhaps. Why on earth should I make an effort to be friendly? Why should I let one hint of an apology erase everything I still know and fear?

He called me back when he was out of work; he saw he’d missed a call. We talked for about a half an hour, which was surprisingly nice, friendly, and not nearly as strange as I’d thought it would be. It was almost like talking to an old friend. The topic of his current girlfriend was a weird one. I didn’t feel the least bit jealous, but I did feel cautious about saying anything about her. I don’t know her. (But he doesn’t seem to like her... although that could just be him trying not to make me feel weird. Which is weird.)

I wanted to write about this on Tuesday, but it was too fresh and I didn’t know what to say. I’m glad I waited until after this second conversation, though it did end up being much longer than I’d anticipated. Who knew I had this many thoughts on the topic?

I hope this entire blog doesn’t become about men. How pitiful that would be! (Especially considering the fact that there are absolutely NO romantic prospects on the horizon. I mean, sexual prospects, sure, but... haha.) I’m glad to be blogging again. More soon.

Love,
Monica

PS: I am currently reading The Tales of Beedle the Bard, by JK Rowling, Oryx & Crake, by Maragaret Atwood, and The Almost Moon, by Alice Sebold.

PPS: It’s Thursday evening, now. I haven’t had consistent internet since I got back yesterday morning, so I’m not sure when I’ll actually be posting this.