MY BEST FRIEND'S SHREDDING
Like a crystal vase that's had one to many knocks, people, when they're down, can feel rather fragile.
This week I've done my all to help my friend T out: I picked up her little sister at the airport; and I took her into town and paid for a trip on an inflatable speedboat on the Thames.
Today, T prepared another one of her trademark feasts, complete with home-made sashimi, deep-fried shnitzel and a pineapple sweeter than honey.
As well as two of my friends and T's little sister, there were two other male guests there. They were fresh-faced, decent and entertaining.
Later this evening, I called to see what T was up to. She was staying at home, as expected. Which was fine. Yet I couldn't help but sensing in the tone of her voice that something was a amiss. Had I said something at lunch that I shouldn't? Did the two cherubs at lunch ask T if she and I were an item, thereby reinforcing her fears that I act as though there's something going on between us when in reality there isn't (my profession of undying love last December notwithstanding)?
I suspect the latter and have already run-through my next showdown with T in my head:
"I've got a bone to pick with you," she'll say.
"What is it this time?"
"You've got to stop acting like we're closer than we are when there are other people around. I've told you about this before."
"Well I tell you what," I'd say. "Why don't we just stop hanging out and that way there'll be no danger of anyone getting the wrong impression!"
"Don't be so melodramatic - and don't hate."
"I'm not being melodramatic. I'm tired of your bone-picking; of your moodiness and sensitivity to practically everything I say, and I'm tired of being mocked by you in front of others. So either accept me for who I am and what I say - fauxs pas and all - or call it quits."
Something like that, anyway.
Of course, it might just be that I've turned some meaningless, fatigue-inspired intonation in her voice into some kind of deeper resentment that in reality doesn't exist. But then again, I might not.
Like a crystal vase that's had one to many knocks, people, when they're down, can feel rather fragile.
This week I've done my all to help my friend T out: I picked up her little sister at the airport; and I took her into town and paid for a trip on an inflatable speedboat on the Thames.
Today, T prepared another one of her trademark feasts, complete with home-made sashimi, deep-fried shnitzel and a pineapple sweeter than honey.
As well as two of my friends and T's little sister, there were two other male guests there. They were fresh-faced, decent and entertaining.
Later this evening, I called to see what T was up to. She was staying at home, as expected. Which was fine. Yet I couldn't help but sensing in the tone of her voice that something was a amiss. Had I said something at lunch that I shouldn't? Did the two cherubs at lunch ask T if she and I were an item, thereby reinforcing her fears that I act as though there's something going on between us when in reality there isn't (my profession of undying love last December notwithstanding)?
I suspect the latter and have already run-through my next showdown with T in my head:
"I've got a bone to pick with you," she'll say.
"What is it this time?"
"You've got to stop acting like we're closer than we are when there are other people around. I've told you about this before."
"Well I tell you what," I'd say. "Why don't we just stop hanging out and that way there'll be no danger of anyone getting the wrong impression!"
"Don't be so melodramatic - and don't hate."
"I'm not being melodramatic. I'm tired of your bone-picking; of your moodiness and sensitivity to practically everything I say, and I'm tired of being mocked by you in front of others. So either accept me for who I am and what I say - fauxs pas and all - or call it quits."
Something like that, anyway.
Of course, it might just be that I've turned some meaningless, fatigue-inspired intonation in her voice into some kind of deeper resentment that in reality doesn't exist. But then again, I might not.
posted by David Cohen at 9:47 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home