Nursing the Little Things
<<2003-04-05 - 1:47 p.m.>>

Went to breakfast, ran into Kara and walked around with her for awhile. While browsing in the bookstore, she said that Fury and I certainly have been hitting it off for the past couple of days, haven't we? I said we have been, yes. She said that if something romantic were to happen between us, that would be okay with her, but she didn't like things going on behind her back. She also said that she was suspicious of the efficacy of the working together, because neither participant seems to get any work done. But she said that before, so it was not quite as "I think you and Fury are hooking up" as it looks here with the two statements so closely juxtaposed. I assured her that nothing was going on behind her back, said that I didn't think I'd be comfortable with a romantic relationship with Fury in light of Kara's Terminal Crush.

And when I headed back to my room, I ran into Fury on her bike—or, rather, she saw me and called my name and then I ran into her. Chatchatchat. As I walked away, I thought, Well, maybe. Wait, no. Might be going to live with her next year. Bad idea. She has a girlfriend at home. Bad idea. Kara would be sad. Bad idea. Be sensible. And then I thought, Why should I have to be sensible? and then my vicious mind pulled up an imaginary image of The Moment Before, Rowen leaning in to kiss John, and then it felt like being stabbed in the gut. Ow. I am not ready to be that kind of hypocrite, I don't think. But: it was different, a bit. Rowen knew that I was planning on Discussing Us with John, knew that I had the intention of initiating Something More. She knew that I hated the thought of John with someone else. So those are two differences: relationship-intention and feelings on Other People. Nevertheless, there's that stab-in-the-gut feeling. I look at Rowen and feel a thick rising anger. God damn, I'm glad she's not going to be here next year. Go to France, Rowen, where you won't look at me without seeing the anger behind my face.

And last night, as we pondered sleeping arrangements, Fury didn't offer to share her bed. And there was this odd moment of me leaving, a moment of strange facial expression or eye contact or something. And I don't know what any of it means. And I am nursing the little things. For a change. Can there be sexual tension on only one end? Does it work that way?

Listening to "Hedwig." Ooh. Remember that boy at Rocky all those many years ago? Beautiful blond boy, face contorted in a snarl, straddling the mic-stand, scream-singing "Angry Inch." Yes, me too. But it used to be more vivid. It is a terrible shame that memories fade. When they are beautiful-vivid-image memories, of course, and not vivid-gut-stabbing-feeling memories.

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