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Winter 1993 - I think the next time I see Paula I'll just start crying. I mean I'm planning this, but also I don't think I'll be able to help myself. It's interesting—making plans to express one's inability to cope with a future moment. Something inside me will fall to pieces the next time I see Paula, and I'm preparing myself to let her see this happen.
I suspect that the next time I see Paula I'll be unable to keep myself from bursting into tears. In the past, however, I've had occasion to surprise myself and have often been able to hide my feelings rather well. This fact tempers my suspicion into a near-certainty that the next time I see Paula my eyes will simply fill with tears. Paula works too hard. She doesn't have time for me. I think, Ask her to lunch; I ask, and she refuses again and again. She hasn't agreed to have lunch with me since I broke up with my girlfriend. A couple of weeks ago I had an episode of thinking that I should really invite her to dinner. The thought kept intruding: eagerly I'd entertain it, and each time I'd end up saying to myself, You lunatic, what are you thinking? Paula would never have dinner with you, she won't even have lunch with you. |