Clench

You know who was driving the late train tonight. I thought that they had shifted his schedule, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe he was just filling in for someone else on another time slot, or maybe he took a few days off. I'm not sure if he saw me. I think he may have at one point, but I can't be sure. He wasn't sitting in the driver's seat when I boarded the train, but I saw the tell-tale water bottle and I knew in the corners of my heart that he was back. I haven't been riding that train as a general course, but the few times I did in the last couple of weeks, he wasn't driving it. There was hope yet. Well, the system schedule changes in early April, so he'll definitely get a change in time slots. Where he ends up, who knows? Probably not in the equivalent spots. Maybe he'll have a day shift. I could feel myself clenching, though. It's so irrational - I mean... it's just the threat of ... what? Neither of us want drama and won't create it. Maybe it's just the simple threat of confrontation, since our last conversation was over the phone... as what potential there was summarily flushed itself down the toilet. But I'm not the histrionic type, and neither is he... so... what? The unknown. I turned up Franz Ferdinand on little Nanita. That helped me to relax. Okay, so it's dancy punkish rock, but it helped me relax because I could just focus on my music and my Tetris-esque game on my Palm. A welcome distraction. I feel such the fool. But this is part and parcel of needing closure. In happier news, I'm meeting Caramba tomorrow! Where we're going, I don't know. But we're working on it. He's nice and I enjoy conversing with him. No jedi mind tricks necessary to prop up conversation. We can talk for hours... literally. He's down to earth, intelligent, adventurous... and something in me tells me that he's actually pretty cute. Just... short. bah! I'm working up the nerve to get over it... and maybe I should start shopping for some low heels. But I hate low heels. I think they, as a general matter of course, don't look good on my feet. Probably because, like many of those Victoria's Secret models, I have big feet! Plus I don't want to feel like Katie fucking Holmes. Blech. Anyway. I'm working on getting over that last bit of residual anxiety. In time, I will feel absolutely nothing, right? No, never. Because I will probably still enjoy the tenor of his voice, and remember how sweetly he held my hand and those I-really-want-to-see-you-again kisses as I was getting off the train from our date. But it won't be significant enough to displace anything stronger. There's the rub.