i found old journal writings from when i was in my mid twenties and found it so fascinating to read about men i had dated and the experiences they gave me and the feelings i felt so intensely. some i remember in detail, some i don’t remember at all. i read these entries of younger me with such a fondness. i really love her and i wish i could tell her that she was right and everything will turn out okay.
it’s 10:17 pm and i am on the train. there’s a lady across the aisle reading a tattered copy of atonement by ian mcewan and i wonder if this is her personal copy or if she borrowed it from the library. i wonder if this is a book she reads routinely. i want to ask her how she’s surviving it because the book is nothing but muddled words that try to force a pretty story down your throat but is so boring, it leaves your mind wandering. the lady is asleep, her finger holding her place between the pages. her finger has moved and now her place is lost. her eyes are closed and her face looks so peaceful even though her head rests on the window and rhythmically bounces as the train pushes it’s way down the tracks. i’m tired. i want to stop thinking about things that are existing in my life and think about the people who rotate on and off at each stop. i want to stop feeling this and feel something else.
he asked me to dinner and i told him i would accept coffee. i debated driving or taking the train but taking the train always wins. i asked him if we could meet later in the evening, around seven or so. he agreed and told me to meet him at a coffee shop. mint plaza. i repeated the location in my head over and over. mint plaza. mint plaza. mint plaza. it sounded funny to me. the train was empty and strangely quiet.
he held my hand across the table on the second floor of a bar. i'm startled when his hand reaches for mine. i want to pull my hand away because i reserve holding hands for people i feel deeply. holding hands is not like kissing. why are you holding my hand? because i feel like it. i distract myself by looking outside. my. hand feels like it’s being held hostage but the facade of intimacy fades my loneliness a little. he's looking at me.