Look Again

I attempt to remind myself there is no secret meaning to these words. It doesn’t take. They feel weighty. Substantial. I want to hear her whisper thank you for the cookies again. And again.

If I lean back any farther, I’ll fall over backward onto her kitchen tile. I clear my throat and point at her face. “You have a little…” I can’t make any more words come out.

Straightening up, she puts her hands to her mouth. “Did I get it?” And that fast, the mood changes. Not cold, exactly, but we are definitely back to professional colleagues. As opposed to whatever that had been for a minute there. Unprofessional colleagues?

What is she thinking? She certainly knows what she’s doing. Nobody who looks like her can do something like that and not know what it would do to me. To any man. So she’s messing me over. Nice.

She jumps out of her chair and goes over to the sink. After washing her hands and wiping them on a towel, she says, “Anything else we need to do for the dance? Or are you ready to organize the Art Show?”

I have never actually had whiplash, but I’m pretty sure now that I know what it feels like.

"Art Show. Yes." I fold my arms over my chest. "I'm in charge of venue, right?"

She looks a mixture of relieved and surprised. But without any of the flirty smiling I’d seen thirty seconds ago. "Right," she says. "Have you not decided on anything yet?"

"Little busy writing a play and teaching classes," I say, knowing it sounds mean and petty. Gears changed fast. Something is bringing out the worst in me. Is it her? Is it the sugar overload? Is it the doubt hovering around the idea of this guy in Boston? I know it’s happening and I hate it.

She knows it too. I can practically see the offense coming off her. "If it's asking too much, I'll look for a venue myself." That might have been a generous offer, if it was made with any attempt to sound gracious. It wasn't. And under other circumstances, such as the tiniest drop of sincerity, I’d be glad to take it. But after the emotional whiplash I’ve just experienced this morning, I am not ready to trust her. I’d like to walk away. And I’m sure she'd like me to go. At least I think I’m sure. I’m having some trouble with her signals.

But she doesn’t ask me to leave, so I breath in and out and then say, "There's a place on campus we might want to try."

She doesn’t say anything, but she looks open to discussing.

I stand up. "Want to take a walk with me?"