In a few weeks, couple of weeks, really, we will need to turn our clocks back and the night will come an hour sooner. Before I leave work, I can see through the giant windows that twilight was arriving noticeably sooner every day.
I get up before the sun does. By the time I get to the 7 train platform, dawn has just given rise to the sun behind me, illuminating the Manhattan skyline. I know, soon, within a few days, I will be at the platform before the sun rises. Of course, once we turn the clock back, the sun will get ahead of me again.
Time is passing quickly. I've been here for nearly half a year now. I still remember when I walk home the feeling of anxiety over moving the car away somewhere so it won't block street cleaning, and I had to strategize it so as to minimize the number of moves each week. I remember still a messy apartment, an apartment with guests while I myself felt still like a guest sometimes, in this foreign apartment. I didn't know then what adventures awaited me, just as now I have no idea what lies ahead.
I saw the pianist Saturday when she invited me to go up to Inwood with her and get some groceries from the local farmer's market. We then cooked and chatted. We never chatted about "us", about the breakup. After that, she gave me a one-hour lesson on what a sonata was, since I saw that word in her repertoire. Her lesson was her way of feeling the relationship less off-balanced since I was helping her a lot with just about everything. After that I gave her a longer lesson on the web, on how to make things work.
After that we went to the monthly milonga together. That part wasn't planned. I was slightly surprised that, when I told her I was going to go next day to a friend who lived just a few stops south, she told me it wouldn't make sense for me to go all the way back to Queens. I showed none of my slight surprise.
How I am handling this breakup is very different from all the other times. There is no drama after our talk last Sunday. I didn't write to her at all, let alone endless tragic and angry emails. I told her, as I have mentioned in earlier blog entries, that I would give her all the space she needed. My door would be open.
She didn't call me until last Wednesday, which wasn't that long after the breakup, and by then, surprisingly to me, I was very much over the pain. And that was the only contact last week. And here I was in her apartment talking about everything except the breakup, except "us". I could sense that she was getting more comfortable with me.
Nothing happened in bed. It was, ironically, very much like before, except that when I wanted to stroke her hair she resisted. I respected her small step away from me. I crossed the line, however innocent it was. I couldn't sleep much, not because of her, just because her corner is really noisy, and we went to bed a little after 5AM. I also couldn't sleep because of the French girl. We were starting another round of vicious fights.
I made the pianist French toast and she asked if she was being spoiled again. "Again" referring to how I was spoiling her plenty when we were together. I didn't hear any alarm in her voice, no fear, just being coquettish; I said I had to eat myself.
We didn't hug when I walked in that Saturday morning. It was a little awkward despite my determination to have a nice day with her, knowing that the next time I would see her would be uncertain. But that slight cool air between us warmed up as the beautiful Saturday wore on.
After I left her place on Sunday to go to that friend's place a few blocks down, I didn't call her or contact her in any way. I was slightly surprised to see her at the Sunday milonga later, perhaps because I still had a small piece of possessiveness that partially drove her away. I was expecting her to let me know she was coming, like before. But that feeling was small, even if noticeable. We walked out together but this time, unlike exactly a week ago, I wasn't sentimental. I was tired, having slept only 4 hours in her bed before the honking at the corner. I hugged her and I walked away without, unlike last time, looking back. I have to say that I did so with some effort. I wanted her to want me. I don't know if she looked back. But I want her to come to me. I don't want to chase after her when she doesn't want to be chased. I have shown her how much I could offer. She turned it all away, but it seems only momentarily. Today she called me to check on me, and to confirm our little date, romantic or platonic, tomorrow at the Lincoln Center to see her former teacher perform. She was giggly, happy, and silly. I didn't restrain my own happiness, but I did nothing sentimental.
Perhaps I have recovered. But I am thinking about something else. There is a certain degree of lamentation in all this. I have a lot of love energy to give and so far, in every case in my life since returning from Europe, it was sort of, wasted. It was as if I was sending a powerful beam into space and it just disintegrates eventually into the very darkness it vainly attempts to illuminate. This weekend was the monthly milonga, and all the crazy tango people from outside the city come down. I saw some of the women I had wasted this energy in, even danced with a few of them. And now I wonder why I seem to have it together with this pianist. I wonder if I still like her as much as before but figured out how to control my feelings. Or perhaps I am becoming jaded and losing interest in all things romantic. It's not just wasting the romantic energy; it's also believing that following your heart and showing your love is the right thing to do, and yet, you rarely, rarely get rewarded by it, reward in the sense of a different love of the same intensity and nature.
The French girl and I had a huge fight this weekend, as I mentioned. I won't go into the details. But in the end, I realized a few things. I realized I was ready to be her friend, that I had been ready for a few weeks now. But at the same time, my wound from all the drama of the past two years with her hasn't had any significant period of healing. We eventually made up and for now things are all right. But still, today, I thought, what was all that about? What was the point? Why did I waste my romantic energy on someone that is now clearly best fit in my world as a friend. Not why did "I" waste the energy, since I don't have control over whom I direct the energy to, but rather, why did the world, fate, God, or whoever, direct that energy to her. What was the point? The lesson? The two of us have expended immense emotional energy in fighting each other just to build the close relationship we finally have now. What a waste!
This, of course, is nothing compared to the drama with Rose, over more than fourteen years. And it's not like I will get wiser and fall for the right girl next time. You never get to choose whom you fall in love with, so there is no lesson to learn. The lessons are in how to deal with people, how to connect with yourself during these times of wasting energy. I have yet to see deeper about these lessons.
There is a part of me that wants to get excited about seeing the pianist. I don't know if I am simply no longer as excited as before or I am being much more careful. It's still too early to tell. For now, I want to get to know her. Just as I want to connect deeper with the French girl, as well as other elements of this new life in New York City. I will try to remember to do the same with myself.
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