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EDIT (6 Feb 07): The further I get from this chain of events, the weirder it seems. The more I think about it, the more it doesn't make ANY SENSE AT ALL. How could things have made so much sense at the time? Even drunkenness and sleep-deprivation and desire generally don't make a person that stupid. I suppose I didn't really do anything stupid; the whole event was just STRANGE.
I will say, though, that the mood I was in for most of Sunday was actually sort of a nice one.
Anyway, back to your previously written entry.
...
This morning was a dream. Eight hours of a waking dream, a beautiful one. A year ago a genuinely caring first year made sure that a small group of prospective students were fed and entertained on their unplanned third day in New Haven, as a blizzard had dropped several feet of snow over the town. Six months ago I saw him on a shuttle, carrying agar plates from one campus to the other, and we said hellos, nothing more. Friday our prospective students were interviewing on the same side of campus, and it became a game as we passed each other to make faces or tease each other, and suddenly I found myself flirting with this amazing second-year.... So many other things happened this weekend, but eventually last night I ended up in a bar, a dive really, drinking with five second-years on Yale's tab long after our prospectives had called it a night. The merest hint of cuddling and attempts at hand-holding evolved into leaning on one another as the party moved from the bar to someone's house, where the other four played Mario Kart and we two simply enjoyed being near each other. (Sounds so corny, of course, but that's the way things work, isn't it? It's corny because it's been said a million times; it's been said a million times because it's how things are.) Three a.m. came and went, and eventually rides were offered, and I walked into my apartment alone and happy...
until I got a text message. I called him and he asked if we could talk. "Now?" I thought to myself. "It's four in the morning..." But we'd talked earlier about meaningless sex and I knew that wasn't what he was after, so I agreed, and he grabbed a shuttle and came over. As we lay on my living room floor, his head resting on a floor pillow and his arms resting on mine, he said the things you never want to hear. "I like you, but..." "You're perfect, but..." and though I appreciate his honesty in telling me that he doesn't want a relationship right now, that he needs to focus on work, it did break my heart a little that he seemed so confident that it would be a bad idea. Still, honesty will get you everywhere, so we retired to my bed (clothed), and he kissed me or I kissed him or somehow someone touched someone, and though it was nearly five a.m., we stayed awake and kissed and talked for a few more hours. I think we drifted off just before the sun rose, then woke again around eight, and fell asleep again around ten. Each time I awoke I felt as though I was in a dream, and as I turned over and looked at this perfect man lying next to me, I had to discover over again that this was, in fact, reality, and that things would end. I was saddened by the knowledge that this was the only night we'd get, and it wasn't even going to be a wholly satisfying night. His kisses were amazing, the sort that can only be amazing because a person's mouth and tongue and lips and kissing style are all perfectly matched to your own, and you seem to instinctively know when and where to kiss and bite and tease. I'm sure I was dreaming the entire thing, and that soon I'll wake up and my bed will be made and still empty; the blankets won't be in a crumpled heap at the foot, and my sheets won't smell like boy.
Work is such a terrible excuse. It's awful to be put second behind a job. But we are scientists, and that is more than a job; it's our identity. I understand. I really do. Graduate school is life; we're here because it's our passion. If lab isn't right, nothing is right. So it's good that he knows himself well enough to know that he's not in a good space for a relationship, it's good that he felt obliged to be up front about the fact that this wasn't going to go anywhere. It's good that he had the restraint to keep both our clothes on. It's terrible that he's a wonderful kisser, it's terrible that he's brilliant and gorgeous and funny and ticklish.
I feel all out of sorts now. A week ago I barely even remembered him, and now today I'm sad that things aren't going to work out. What a strange way to begin a friendship; what a strange way to end a weekend.
I will say, though, that the mood I was in for most of Sunday was actually sort of a nice one.
Anyway, back to your previously written entry.
...
This morning was a dream. Eight hours of a waking dream, a beautiful one. A year ago a genuinely caring first year made sure that a small group of prospective students were fed and entertained on their unplanned third day in New Haven, as a blizzard had dropped several feet of snow over the town. Six months ago I saw him on a shuttle, carrying agar plates from one campus to the other, and we said hellos, nothing more. Friday our prospective students were interviewing on the same side of campus, and it became a game as we passed each other to make faces or tease each other, and suddenly I found myself flirting with this amazing second-year.... So many other things happened this weekend, but eventually last night I ended up in a bar, a dive really, drinking with five second-years on Yale's tab long after our prospectives had called it a night. The merest hint of cuddling and attempts at hand-holding evolved into leaning on one another as the party moved from the bar to someone's house, where the other four played Mario Kart and we two simply enjoyed being near each other. (Sounds so corny, of course, but that's the way things work, isn't it? It's corny because it's been said a million times; it's been said a million times because it's how things are.) Three a.m. came and went, and eventually rides were offered, and I walked into my apartment alone and happy...
until I got a text message. I called him and he asked if we could talk. "Now?" I thought to myself. "It's four in the morning..." But we'd talked earlier about meaningless sex and I knew that wasn't what he was after, so I agreed, and he grabbed a shuttle and came over. As we lay on my living room floor, his head resting on a floor pillow and his arms resting on mine, he said the things you never want to hear. "I like you, but..." "You're perfect, but..." and though I appreciate his honesty in telling me that he doesn't want a relationship right now, that he needs to focus on work, it did break my heart a little that he seemed so confident that it would be a bad idea. Still, honesty will get you everywhere, so we retired to my bed (clothed), and he kissed me or I kissed him or somehow someone touched someone, and though it was nearly five a.m., we stayed awake and kissed and talked for a few more hours. I think we drifted off just before the sun rose, then woke again around eight, and fell asleep again around ten. Each time I awoke I felt as though I was in a dream, and as I turned over and looked at this perfect man lying next to me, I had to discover over again that this was, in fact, reality, and that things would end. I was saddened by the knowledge that this was the only night we'd get, and it wasn't even going to be a wholly satisfying night. His kisses were amazing, the sort that can only be amazing because a person's mouth and tongue and lips and kissing style are all perfectly matched to your own, and you seem to instinctively know when and where to kiss and bite and tease. I'm sure I was dreaming the entire thing, and that soon I'll wake up and my bed will be made and still empty; the blankets won't be in a crumpled heap at the foot, and my sheets won't smell like boy.
Work is such a terrible excuse. It's awful to be put second behind a job. But we are scientists, and that is more than a job; it's our identity. I understand. I really do. Graduate school is life; we're here because it's our passion. If lab isn't right, nothing is right. So it's good that he knows himself well enough to know that he's not in a good space for a relationship, it's good that he felt obliged to be up front about the fact that this wasn't going to go anywhere. It's good that he had the restraint to keep both our clothes on. It's terrible that he's a wonderful kisser, it's terrible that he's brilliant and gorgeous and funny and ticklish.
I feel all out of sorts now. A week ago I barely even remembered him, and now today I'm sad that things aren't going to work out. What a strange way to begin a friendship; what a strange way to end a weekend.
