What if all we’re left with are the old ways of knowing?
|Wynn Myers @ F-Stop Magazine|
Lise Weil reflects on a relationship's conflicts and lusts @ Carte Blanche.
Walking the diagonal to her place. Up Gilford, right on Hotel de Ville. Ringing her buzzer. This door, so recently the door of a stranger. How foreign it was the first time, the boulevard, the traffic. The blue graph and spinning galaxies on the computer screen. The vaulted whiteness, the spareness. How impossible to love a woman who lived this way. Who was so poised, so elegant. So remote. Not to mention so beautiful. Yet why did this thought occur to me at all? Because already I was doing just that—imagining it. Now the distance has been breached. But the strangeness persists. Cooking together, eating together, lovemaking, waking up to each other… no getting used to it.She the unapproachable. Unreachable. Unassimilable.We like to eat out together. After two years of gazing into restaurants envying the people inside drinking smoking eating talking, now to be among them, to be seated across from my dinner companion, she with her wine, I with my beer, lighting up before dinner.But not tonight. The new Thai restaurant on Laurier in Outremont. Her idea. All plate-glass windows, upscale. Ascending tiers, tables jammed, mostly with young couples. Professionals–it’s Friday night. Sudden aversion. Revulsion. What kind of life is she reeling me into? How well she fits in. Sitting back with her wine, gazing at me, enjoying herself. I can’t sit back. Can’t return her gaze. Won’t help out with conversation. Walking silently back to her place in raw drizzle. Slightly ahead of her the whole way. A bourgeois individualist, that’s what she is. A few more nights like this and I’ll be a bourgeois individualist too.read more