Chapter Two

She puts the phone down. She never had any intention of calling him in the first place. Perhaps it's her age, something more primal, more hormonal that caused her to have a momentary weakness. Some need to partner up and nest. There would be no point calling and feigning nicety. She didn't want false pretenses where he mistakes politeness for interest. And to have to tell someone you're not interested would only just create unnecessary inconvenience for both parties. There was no desire to tempt friendship either, not when she was about to leave in a few short months for good. What kind of friendship would develop anyway? She certainly didn't want him to think she would oblige to a "mutually beneficial" friendship. She had had plenty of those in her youth, but now she had moved onto other goals in life. It is now time for emotional fulfillment.

A man who doesn't call a woman back is called a bastard. Are the issues at the forefront of a woman's consideration when she doesn't call a man back also rests so prominently in a man's mind when he does the same? I'd be very intrigued and pleasantly surprised if they were. But let's face it girls, men are bastards.

Piecing It Together

Any of my friends will tell you I have a useless memory. And it doesn't strike me how bad until I am jolted by a sudden return of a snippet of the past which brings on an involuntary Cheshire smile or a swell of uncontrolled embarrassment or even a flash of pure anger. Then the feeling disappears and I marvel at how strong that tiny piece of memory was, and feeling completely at a loss as to why I had misplaced that memory in the first place. It's like being half a person. I am never fully aware of myself and every day I feel like I am still premature, or delayed in my personal growth, when perhaps these feelings may be unfounded if I could just refer back to any minute detail of my past and find answers to my doubt.

Watched the end of A Streetcar Named Desire today, where Vivien Leigh's Blanche DuBois is having a conversation with Marlon Brando who plays Stanley. She talks about beauty fading, but that she has intelligence and culture and depth to offer, and being rich in that sense. Though she does lose her mind by the end of the film I do like this bit of self-confidence and don't feel it's at all part of the dementia she suffers towards her self-image. It was almost a glimmer of hope that she understands the reality of her situation but still holds a small flicker of hope for a better future...that is, until Stanley brutally demolishes her with his words.

Someone once did that to me, brutal to me with words. I was with him for a year and every day knew it was shit and literally counting down the days till I left. But the strangest, most unexplainable thing in that non-relationship relationship was that I'd wanted it to work so much that I kept defending him to myself. I still cannot explain to myself to this day why I felt like this about a man I didn't even want in the first place. Then I left. And I was a normal human being again. The hollows in my memory bank are serving me well.

Corner

Darkness. Music. Strobe lights. Smoke. He shows interest. You show interest. You grind together on the dance floor. Go home together. He asks for your number, then he never calls. You call him a bastard. Every girl has been there before.

Now reverse that role.

A girl takes a boy home on Saturday night. She had been out with a group of friends and had no particular intention except to enjoy a rare night out. As girls do, they giggle and talk about boys. Banded together they play that universal game of Spot, spotting for those they deemed good looking. He was one she had noticed early on, being a tall, muscular black man wading in a pool of Taiwanese people. A few glasses of liquid courage later, she approaches a white guy at the bar for a chat. The reception was cool, so she leaves him alone. Her friend, a married lady, helps by marching them both directly to the black man and asks if He is single. He is. He hits the ground running by asking them both to dance. A smooth move indeed on his part. Girls do believe in safety in numbers, though our girl has somewhat grown out of that need. A benefit of age she likes to think. Very quickly they take to each other. It is familiar territory for them both, that dancing is a kind of foreplay.

But did she really want what was presented to her or did she simply take what was being offered? He was an excellent lover, and sweet too. In the morning He asked for her number. She asks for his instead. In polite parlance it would have been gracious to call or text that day to say she had a great time. To play the game would have been to apply the Three Day Rule. To be a bastard was to do nothing at all. She effected option three.

Why did she choose to be a bastard? Why, if she herself had been through the disappointment of not receiving an expected phone call, would now do the same to another? There were many considerations. She wasn't interested in a fling. She was interested in a meaningful relationship. She wasn't interested in making a new friend. She was interested in learning through a lifetime of friendship. There was no time either; she plans to leave the country within six months. Though handsome and considerate, he also seemed young. There wasn't a trace of arrogance or bitterness. Just smooth lines of grace and positivity, of an unfettered life, of self-created adventures and explorations. It wouldn't have worked, she keeps telling herself. There is no point, her resolve weakening. She picks up the phone. She puts it down. She picks up the phone. And considers.