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| Subject: Moving In | |
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Author: Judy |
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Date Posted: 23:41:56 04/11/05 Mon Arriving at my house, we continue the negotiations that began earlier in the evening. Cold, tired and sneezing every other minute, Robert is squirming on the orange recliner, waiting for my final answer. He seems far from where I sit, upright on the middle of my living room couch. The topic of my moving in came up out of nowhere. We're eating sushi at the restaurant where I nearly choked to death on a roll of crunchy hamachi the last time we were here when the topic of my having slept over three times in one week comes up. I tell Robert that I was lonely that week as my roommate was in Australia for her final week of a month long stay. I could no longer stand being alone. No matter that in Brisbane, I hardly spoke to anyone, creeping out each morning, as if stealing away from a jilted lover. I left open the door of the room where I slept, just so I could feel the four others in the house. I find myself saying to Robert, “I imagine that you’re saving that room for me.” Whoa. Where did that come from? I mean, I have to admit I’ve thought about it. I even mentioned my thoughts to Suzanne two nights ago. But I had no intention of acting on them so soon. I thought I would wait until at least summer, or maybe never. The One Taste crowd has been pestering me for nine months to move in. But I always swore I wouldn’t. I liked my independence, my life on the other side of the San Francisco Bay. I didn’t want full emersion in a world that seemed too foreign, strange and scary for my tastes. Only a little while ago, I emphasized to a friend that while I am going in deeper, becoming more involved in the community, I am not moving in. But lately, the distance from One Taste has seemed too far. I miss everyone when I am not with them. Nearly every day, I email Robert or Nicole, as if to say, “Here I am. Don’t forget about me. Here I am.” So here we are, eating sashimi and exotic rolls, and discussing whether I will move in. “How long do we have to wait,” Robert asks. “My lease is up May 1.” “So that means you have…” He looks at his watch. “Six days to give notice.” “Oh my God,” I exclaim and slam my head on the table, overwhelmed. I had no idea. I thought I still had time. Finished with dinner, we walk outside. Something has changed. We have passed from one phase of our friendship into the next. I have become a larger part of the world that is his life. “I want to keep my dining room table,” I say. “Fine. What else do we need to negotiate about?” “You guys are going to have to drive me to BART every morning.” Back at the house as if keeping a professional distance, he chooses the orange chair instead of sitting next to me on the couch. I warn him that I have lots of kitchen stuff. “That’s o.k. We need kitchen stuff,” he says. “I want to keep all my furniture.” I tilt my head toward the living and dining room bookshelves. “Those are mine. And all the furniture in my bedroom.” He nods. “I don’t want to get sucked into volunteering at One Taste. I need the time to write.” “That’s o.k.,” he says. “You’re job is writing. You’ll be made offers, but you can refuse them.” We sit on this one for a little while before I tell him that I am worried about leaving my roommate of two-and-a-half years. I don’t want to abandon her. “She needs me,” I say. “That’s an arrogant thing to say,” Robert says. “She’s fine on her own.” I consider what he’s said. He’s right, I suppose. I care about my roommate, and am worried because she seems so starved for love and attention, but I am not responsible for her. Once upon a time, I thought we might live together as compatible roommates for a long while. But for a few months, I’ve known we would go our separate ways. I am changing too much to stay in the same place much longer. There is nothing left to discuss between Robert and me. At least, not right now. About a week later, I will panic and lose faith that I’ve made the right decision. I will become fearful of Nicole and tell her so. Nicole will email, saying that I’m not ready. I will panic again, because I know I cannot stay where I am. For four days, I will hardly let half a day go by without calling Robert. We will negotiate, and this time, he will have the upper hand. He will demand to know my intentions, the reasons why I want to move in. I will struggle for answers until late one night, I email. “I want to learn how to open people,” I say. I want to write, I tell him, because I want to express the experience, and because writing is the gift I have to offer. Finally, he will call me at work and read me terms for moving in. I will agree to all, except one. In a few hours, after I’ve filed that day’s story at work, I will call back with a counter-offer. The next day, he will call back, agreeing to my terms, but adding a twist. There are also additional terms. I make him read them through one more time before I agree. But at my house, late on the Friday night that is Robert’s birthday, I am still easing into this decision. Robert tells me to give him a deposit check. I shouldn't wait even another day, he says. Otherwise, I’ll go crazy. I’m not ready just yet though. We sit in silence. My strong tolerance for uncomfortable silences has tested the tolerance of many a friend. I can’t help it. I like the intensity, the thickness in the air, the sense of anticipation that is like that of a heated chess match, knowing that someone must make a move, and not knowing where it will take us. My boyfriends have never shared my appreciation, especially if the long silence happened over the phone. More than one told me he would hang up if I didn’t say something. I do have a breaking point. Once I see that they have lost patience, that they are no longer willing to sit with me in the muck, I give in. I do not know Robert’s level of tolerance, but I can see that I have his attention for at least a little while longer. “Come sit here,” I say, and pat my hand on the comfy light brown couch where I have lain many an afternoon and evening reading. “Nope. I’m not going to let you lean into me on this one. You’re going to have to do it alone.” “Ugh,” I say, and fall sideways into a semi-fetal position where I stay. He flips through a magazine on the coffee table. He crosses one leg over the other, then uncrosses them and slumps down into the chair. He pulls a book from Karen’s bookshelf, briefly opens it, then puts it back. I am starting to lose him. I go to my room, pull my checkbook from my purse and bring it into the living room. As I slowly write, Robert stands up, and crosses the room to stand in front of me. Still sitting, I extend my right hand with my fingers lightly gripping the check. He takes a step forward and it transfers from my hand into his. “Remember this moment,” he says. [ Next Thread | Previous Thread | Next Message | Previous Message ] |
| Subject | Author | Date |
| What an interesting perspective | Nicole | 10:04:03 04/12/05 Tue |
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| Hey Judy | dave | 14:11:53 04/12/05 Tue |
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| That was so much fun | Robert | 12:50:55 04/14/05 Thu |