Posts Tagged ‘dating’

An awkward conversation

Saturday, August 6th, 2011

With too many spaces between words, the talk turns into a battle of silence. What are you thinking, I wonder, as sparrows skip across empty patio tables. A game-after crowd hops in and out of chairs, yelling over conversation layers as they spill into back slapping.

“Guess who’s the flavor of the week?” one of the gaggle giggles.

Whoever he is, he’s just a number I figure as I lose the disco dance of her words.

I wish I knew what that was like. I could stray into drink and trash talk, instead of engaging in the serious business of shyness.

How do the shy, boring people talk? But are we boring, him and I? Introverts find it too hard to translate into language the inner rollercoaster of quiet, reflective observations.

How can I tell him that words are how I breathe, the written ones, not the ones I wish I knew how to sling into the comfort of being with another.

I start telling him a story, but it goes nowhere, and I feel stupid. That’s how I often feel, but it’s not exactly an emotion. It’s more of a sad-edged embarrassment that sours my tongue.

I ask him, “Are you bored?”

No, no, it’s okay, he says.

I lower my head and stare at my plate. I lift my fork and taste discomfort, afraid to look at him. I think about lists of questions and wait for the sound of his voice. I look up, seeing that the stillness of my breath makes shyness scream in my ears.

And I smile. He smiles back, almost as if he were frowning. And we begin to talk about something of little importance, what I can’t remember. All I remember is the bitter taste of bad conversation tightening my chest as I forget how to relax and just be myself.

I don’t know how to do that with someone who’s more of an introvert than me. But then I feel lucky that I can talk, strike up conversations and get the surprise that other people don’t consider me shy.

Burndt Sienna Heart

Wednesday, July 6th, 2011

I have a broken crayon in my heart:

It used to be razzle dazzle rose with the hope of you.

After a decade gone by, your memory had become fuzzy wuzzy or even basic brown. I had forgotten until your apology and nine months of Facebook flirtations.

“I was a jerk,” you said. Sorry, sorry, you said.

I re-sharpened my mango tango limbs and tried to be my most exotic shade, a rose quarts that would capture your notice. But you came, you saw and you did not want to conquer.

I could see it in your cerulean blue eyes darkened like coal.

“Am I boring you?” I asked, and got your no, no.

Our five-day trip broke to three.

You needed something in the wild blue yonder. You needed confetti glitter, a spark like firecracker red.

I didn’t have it despite my magic potion purple attempts to be beautiful.

You left, and I felt the lemon-lime zing.

My tears were atomic tangerine, as if they could get me back to basic green when all I really wanted was you, not this broken heart.

I had a taste of my wild watermelon, and with this one lick, I’m off road and don’t know what to do.

I don’t know which crayon is right for me even with 120 colors.

Or is it that I need black to cover memories and hurts and the titanium white look of you. I could scratch off the pieces until a new palette results, like the bitter taste of key lime with a sweet after-tickle on the tongue.