And so it goes

You email me when you get back to the states. You'd seen something on your travels that reminded you of me, so you bought it for me as a gift.

You invite me to dinner. I accept, cautiously.

At the last minute, you suggest a drink before dinner. Possible exit strategy? If so, it's a good one.

We have dinner. The food is good, but I don't eat much of it. Nerves? Probably. You won't let me pay, so I suggest drinks. On me.

We make friends with the bartender, and she starts pouring drinks before we even ask for refills. You with your Maker's Mark. Me with the gin and tonics I never drink anymore.

[Just now, I remembered the night you went to the Maker's Mark party. You came home, much earlier than I thought you would, and you weren't even speaking English anymore. I laughed at you.]

You walk me the two blocks to my apartment, and then ask if you can come inside and see the cats. You ask about the cats before you ask about my mother, always. But after you ask about me. I let you in.

We kiss, even though we both know it's going to ruin everything. I stop kissing you and start crying. I tell you, no, we can't do this. You have to go. You go.

You email. You text. You call. I curl up in a ball in front of my computer, pretending you're not trying to get through. I give up.

We meet for coffee. I say I don't think being friends is going to work. It seems like our only two options at the end of the day are fucking or fighting, and those options pretty much suck.

Two years later, not talking to you still feels more unnatural than talking to you. And I don't know where to go from here, except to the bakery for a slice of peanut butter pie.