Subtle rips of the heart I
The Worm is already gone. Literally. On a plane to somewhere.
He didn’t call to say goodbye, he didn’t even tell me he was leaving, I found out via his internet oversharing, which is such a passive-aggressive form of communication, this Western man puts his Chinese peers to shame.
My heart feels a bit ripped out, even while knowing the Worm and his weirdnesses enough to be flattered that I freaked him out enough to run him out of town. However, he spooks easily. I miss him so desperately, can’t believe it’s already over, even as I don’t even know whether it’s over, because I know him.
We finally consumated on Saturday, the 14th. That, another story. I was Giddy! Giddy! Giddy! afterwards, even know what a mess I had plunged myself into, even aching for another hit of Him.
It buoyed me two days, then the following Tuesday I went to see a talk by a certain Australian-Asian author, incredibly successful and gut-punchingly handsome. It reminded me, that I am not so far away from being able to land a man like that, it just takes losing some weight and getting my career a smidgeon more together to be in that league. That chap even writes about the angst that plagues semi-successful writers, making me want to nibble him even more, although I failed abjected at chatting him up; too nervous, and too preoccupied with Worm.
I, too, had spasms of buyers regrets. Presuming this would or could work, should I whirl with this odd-looking smart slacker who makes my heart sing, when he’s not breaking it? Shouldn’t I hold out for better? But, those standards are stupid, what matters is whether two people work together. (And probably, it’s seeming so far, we don’t.)
I next saw Worm on Wednesday; he joined me for lunch with L, a stunning galleryist who is my favorite new friend and, as a hot sinofied mandarin-fluent artsy white chick with a Chinese artist boyfriend, a member of my tribe. Worm and I gossip dangerously, or used to, and had a conversation where we couldn’t figure out whether we knew the same mandarin-fluent redhead caucasian named L—- since I was blanking on “mine’s” surname. A week later, I met “his” L—- through another friend and was like, Oh! It’s you! That it was partly through Worm’s secret ex-girlfriend didn’t make it less awkward.
Afterwards, we walked to L’s gallery, saw and discussed the show, she made us coffee. Worm wouldn’t look at me. I had laptop, intent on cafe and book-write, and it was his neighborhood, so we headed to one of the two that he haunts. I angled to head to his nearby flat, excuse of meeting his cat but really wanted to snog some more. We did not hold hands, accidental brushings made him jump; he was so flummoxed that he kept getting lost and going the wrong way despite being on his own block.
We spent the afternoon at adjacent tables, me writing, him fucking around on the internet and getting a trip cancelled. Occassionally shifting over to read something on the other’s laptop, with some gentle snuggling the only acknowlegement of what had transpired between us. Oddest sensation, sitting next to a new man I could fall for while writing about my history with the old one who once so defined me.
Worm only looked at me, really talked to me, when I was on my way out, late for an appointment to get all my fucking hair cut off. I asked him what he wanted to do later. Stay there? Meet up at my friend’s gallery opening? He huddled into himself, “I dunno”.
I stared at him, extended my arms to my side, and shrugged in confusion with all of my body and every expression in my rubbery face. “What do I do here?”
Worm turned away.
I left. I should of kissed him again. Perhaps not the mouth, perhaps that place 2/3s down his shoulder that I already have gotten quite fond of, well, not exactly kissing.
But, I didn’t.
I suffered through a haircut. Then to Ice Queen’s opening. I was going nuts with the confusion and sexual frustration, and several of Worm’s net buddies/my frenemies were there. I wanted nothing but to go back to him, and preferably to resume where we had left off Saturday night. I conversed with my Japanese transexual friend, we always communicate in haiku, discussing gardening and balance and hope and ambition and love. Ice Queen suggested I go find him.
So, I did. Sort of.
