She folded and re-folded her napkin. She rehearsed lines in her head.
I leaned forward, as if that would somehow help draw them out.
The deep breaths that were let out slowly. The glistening of pre-tears in her eyes.
I knew what was coming. And I worried about the expression on my face. I wanted to look sympathetic. I wanted to look like I was going through the same pain that she was.
I had some doubts as to whether or not I was pulling it off.
She’s a lovely woman. Smart. Pretty. But…
I didn’t care. And, what’s worse, I couldn’t imagine any series of events that would lead to me caring.
Laziness and an aversion to drama are the only things that had kept me from initiating this conversation myself.
I was already feeling a bit of relief. We just had to bring it to the finish line.
Uh oh, I thought. She was starting to lose steam. She had that “we could give it another try” look in her watery eyes.
I gently got her back on track.
At least I tried to be gentle.
Either way, she was again moving towards saying the magic words.
When something happened that surprised me.
I began having an inkling of a doubt.
I’m not getting any younger. Or prettier. She accepted most of my “quirks.” Sometimes even good naturedly.
Maybe my view of relationships had always been too romantic. Too idealistic.
Maybe she WAS the one.
I was stressing.
But, then I remembered that this bitch had “accidentally” deleted that kickass blog post I had worked so hard on.