It's morning again, and the rain is playing drums on my windowsill. I woke up with that frustration again, though this time it wasn't directed specifically at the French girl as it had been a few months ago. On the 7- train platform I didn't see the twilight that engulfed the Manhattan skyline, but rather, those glass behemoths were blindfolded by the low hanging rainclouds, standing erect, looking like prisoners waiting before the firing squat. The sun that had faced them yesterday morning was nowhere to be found. Everything was gray.
My frustration came before my ascent to the 7-train station. It came before my eyes were open. It came sometime around the torturously slow sound of raindrops outside my window. It was new. Droplets from the eaves above drumming outside my bedroom.
I don't know where this came from. Perhaps it started last night. Last night the pianist invited me to a concert at the newly renovated Alice Tully hall for the Chamber Music Society in Lincoln Center. The music was flawless and amazing. I was happy to be there. I was happy to see her. I wasn't sure if I still liked her, but when I looked at her, I was sure. But that wasn't necessarily good. I have started to think that perhaps it was no longer a good idea. She's taking her time, taking advantage of the space I am giving her in whatever unnamed relationship we have. In the meantime, I am not sure that I can really be as patient as she needs me to be. After the concert there was some awkwardness. We weren't sure what to do. Before we left the concert, an elderly woman fell on the marble floor and became unconscious with a small pool of blood around her head. The EMS came very quickly, but that shook us a bit. Now she was going to go to the practica that I wasn't planning on going because I hadn't thought about how late the concert would go. I wasn't sure where the awkwardness came from. I sensed that she wanted to spend more time with me. In any case, I took the train with her and we went to Chelsea, where the practica was. We grabbed a slice of pizza each and both went to the practica. But there I was sitting a lot. People go to the practica to practice and they spend a lot of time dancing with the same person. When I went I usually make sure there were people to practice with. She was going there to practice with someone.
That put me in a bad mood, sitting there not dancing, knowing I hadn't planned to come. We left earlier and left together. I walked her to the train station and took the same train together. But I left her in Time Square to go home. I wasn't sure if she wanted me to come with her, and of course, if she offered, and she wouldn't have, I wasn't sure what I was going to say. Not sensing any hint from her that I should come with her, I just big her farewell. There was some silence already in the train ride. We were talking about the whole Shalit prison exchange that happened the previous night in Israel, but that was before going to the practica. That connection was over. Now we couldn't really find a connection with this awkwardness lingering in the air, the awkwardness of not know what the other person wanted, or what each person wanted for himself.
It's all stupid and it in the end made me feel strange. Sometimes I just want to be left alone, away from all this stupid awkwardness. I don't have the patience I need. I want a girl to like me and be with me right away, and if she doesn't I want to move on. Often times that didn't end up like that; often the girl wanted me to be friends and see. I lack the patience, but at the same time, I am not entirely sure what I want. I think I am impatient about not getting what I want, whatever that is. It's that feeling of not getting what I want, and not really about what it is that I want.
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