Приступ идиотизма

[AnotherLady]

Большая часть моих англоязычных текстов не висит нигде, а тут как раз народ что-то про ориджи заговорил... Ну в общем, это как минимум трехлетней давности текст. Оридж. Типа роман в письмах. Глупый и флаффный. На английском. Пусть уж повисит тут.

Letters

1.

I think I have a crush on you.

No, don’t hit delete just yet, please. I’m not a stalker. You know me. We talk often. I could’ve told you this face to face, except that… I’m not ready.

Actually, I have a valid reason for not telling. More than one valid reason. You have said you don’t fall for straight men, haven’t you? Yes, I am straight. I don’t know what you would’ve said if I told you all this. Laughed at me, perhaps. Or turned away and never spoke to me afterwards. I don’t think I can do this, not yet.

I’m not sure what answer I expect, but I know I hope for some answer. Please reply, even if just to tell me I’m an idiot and never to mail you again.

2.

You’re not an idiot. At least not so that I could determine this from your letter.

Other than this, I’m not sure what to answer. I’m startled, and more than a little bewildered.

Is this a joke? Except that I’m not sure how an anonymous correspondent confessing a crush can be a joke. What do you expect from me? I’m not romance material; surely you don’t think I’d write back that I love you and all that? Now that would be a joke.

I’m not sure whether I expect a reply. I must admit I’m curious, though I haven’t the slightest clue who you might be.

3.

You’re right, that would be a joke. And I was afraid you’d think this a joke; I can just imagine it — me telling you about my crush, stammering perhaps, though I’ve never stammered in my life, and you staring at me with wide eyes. And then there’d be disappointment in your eyes and you’d say “This is a joke, right?”

This is not a joke, though, perhaps, it’s very stupid. I don’t know what I want from you. To be my friend, that’s for certain, but this is irrelevant to these letters. Otherwise, just … I wanted to say “to say it out loud”, except that I’m not saying it out loud, am I?

I just wanted to tell you because I couldn’t keep it inside any more. I never expected this. I’m not gay. You can believe me or not, but I’m not gay. I like women just fine — some of them more, some of them less. I never expected to have dreams of you, to start missing you the way I had missed only one, maybe two of my ex-girlfriends. I never expected to want to tell you things all the time, things I find funny or interesting or just curious. I never expected to want to touch you.

It’s not that I’ve been too horny lately. I took care of that. I still like women just fine, and I’m still not interested in men in general. Just you.

And I’m still thinking about you.

4.

I don’t know whether you’re gay or not. Only you can decide that. Does it matter so very much to you? Maybe you’re bisexual or something; I don’t know, I’ve never been much of an activist or up on theory. I mostly just wanted to be left alone with my own life.

And I guess you’re right. I would’ve said just that. A joke, at best, and at worst… I knew a guy who’d been tricked just like that. Even if you are my friend, it just would sound weird and suspicious if a straight guy (or a guy known as straight, at any case) suddenly tells you this.

So maybe these letters aren’t a joke. This is too bizarre for a joke. I’m still reminded of romances — aren’t letters from secret admirers stuff for romances? It’s not even Valentine’s Day.

What do you mean about being too horny and taking care of that? What did you do, went and had sex with a random woman because you’ve been dreaming of a guy? Sounds unpleasant. I feel sorry for the woman (and a little for myself. You do realize this sounds a bit creepy?). Does she know she’s been standing in for some guy? Were you playing out these dreams of me you say you’ve been having?

Maybe I shouldn’t write to you any more.

5.

Please read this.

You misunderstood me. Damn, it’s hard writing these letters. If we were talking, perhaps I would’ve noticed when you started to misunderstand. I could’ve explained in time, corrected your impressions.

I’ve never wrote so much before. Not about my feelings, at least. My sister had a diary when she was a teenager. I read it once — it was all about her crush on some guy in school; and now I keep worrying I sound like a teenage girl.

I’m not making a better impression, am I? I know it’s unethical to read other people’s diaries. What can I say, I was a little creep in high school. I’m not a creep now.

No, really. Are you still reading? I hope you are. I should probably go back and edit all this irrelevant stuff I’m writing, but I’m afraid. I think if I reread it I’d never dare to send it. And I want to explain, even if you never reply to me.

I didn’t have sex with a random woman. Well, I did, but she wasn’t random. I don’t know how gay guys do it (please don’t get offended if I said something wrong), but I usually have a couple of sort-of-girlfriends around. They call me if they have no other plans for an evening, or I call them, and we go out for dinner and some, well, fun afterwards. No obligations, no expectations, just pleasure. It’s all very nice.

At least, I used to think it’s all very nice. Sometimes it gets lonely, you know? It’s like we’re stuck on eternal third date, far enough for dinner and sex, never more. Next month the clock gets rewinded and we’re on third date again. There are days when I just want someone’s company to help me paint my kitchen, but how do you ask a woman who’s used to expecting nice dinners and fun from you to help you paint your kitchen? Not that painting a kitchen isn’t fun, just different kind of fun. God, I’m writing nonsense. You probably stopped reading long ago.

And, by the way, I wasn’t playing out dreams about you. They’re not that kind of a dreams. I’m not sure how that kind of a dream is supposed to go. I just dream of being somewhere with you, talking, maybe touching you. I don’t think my imagination goes much further than finding out what your skin feels like to touch. It looks very soft, you know. Do you even shave?

Oh hell, this letter was way more idiotic and embarrassing than the previous ones. I hope you’ve stopped reading.

6.

You’re out of luck — I’ve read all of this.

I know what you mean about third date. Painting your kitchen sounds domestic. Domestic raises it on the whole new level of being serious. I don’t think you’re expected to get serious with sort-of-girlfriends. At least, as far as I can understand the principle. I think I’ve had a sort-of-boyfriend once. No, I’m getting it wrong. I think I’ve been someone’s sort-of-boyfriend. Do you know the difference?

Are you sure those women know they’re sort-of-girlfriends? Maybe one of them would like to paint a kitchen with you? I almost said that friends can help you with that, but it’s not the same, I know. I know what you mean about getting lonely, I’m just not sure what does it all have to do with me. I believe you. I believe about the dreams and all (honestly? You not knowing what to do made me believe. Embarrassment has its uses); I just do not understand.

P.S.: I do shave. Every two days, usually.

7.

Oh god. Good thing I’m reading this at home. I think I’m way too red to be seen in public. But I’m glad embarrassment has its uses. I honestly didn’t think you’d read all this. I probably wouldn’t in your place. I was just babbling… hey, perhaps I’m getting the hang of all this letter-writing. And improving my typing skills in the process.

They know about being sort-of-girlfriends, believe me. I know the difference, but they’re not like you. I’ve been careful. I’m usually very careful. There are enough women who would go over the terms of relationship with you before they start. I like women who know what they want. Thing is, I stopped knowing what *I* want.

What does it have to do with you? Would you believe you’re the person I keep imagining painting the kitchen with me? And this has nothing to do with being friends.

You gradually took such a large place in my life, and you didn’t even know it. Is it stalkerish on my side? You’re a very easy person to have nearby. You’ve always been easy to talk to. They warned me beforehand that you’re gay, and I must admit I’ve been a bit tense. I thought it’d be difficult. It wasn’t.

Oh, you’re very different from me. I know that. Like this thing with casual dating — I can’t imagine you having sort-of-boyfriends. You’re not the kind of person for this; you strike me as someone who doesn’t view sex as entertainment. Besides, you’re way too workaholic to take breaks for something so unimportant as this, are you?

I respect you. I think I learned to respect you very quickly, though it’s difficult to remember distinct moments definitely — there’s just layers in my mind, layers of different moments of you. You reading. You with your nose in the computer screen. You looking up. You drinking coffee. You looking into the window and saying something important. Why do you always look away when you say important things, job-related or personal?

I learned to respect you and then I started to just like you, because you’re fun. Your interests are so very different than mine (hell, I’m forced to write in generalities. I’m afraid that if I say too much you’ll guess who I am), but you always listen, and I mean really listen, ask questions and understand answers. Are you that smart you can understand anything? Perhaps you are, but I’ve met smart people before, and it’s not just that. No one took such trouble to listen, and not just to me, even though I keep imagining sometimes that you listen to me with more attention than to others. Silly, I know.

I don’t know when I started to watch you, but I evidently did, at some point. I started to collect impressions of you, like mental snapshots. Maybe when you do that, quantity turns into quality. At some point I started seeing you everywhere. No, it sounds wrong. I don’t hallucinate. It’s just that my impression of you is so very vivid, it keeps hovering somewhere around in my mind’s eye. I sit at home, or in a café, or somewhere else like this, and if I stop concentrating I feel you’re sitting somewhere nearby, reading, or maybe throwing me an amused glance.

I don’t know what it is. I said it’s a crush; maybe it’s a silly word but it’s a silly feeling I have. What other words are there? Love’s… too imposing. I don’t want anything from you — how can I?

No, I’m wrong. I do want you to answer this letter. I’ve grown used to your replies — how silly is this? I keep checking my mailbox. I registered it just for these letters. I have a mailbox full of your letters only. Sometimes I reread them.

P.S.: Every two days? I guessed it’d be something like this. You’re too blond. Too fair. I like the word fair, even if it does smack of those romances you’re too wary of.

8.

You do realize that sooner or later I’ll guess who you are, don’t you? I am now reasonably sure that you work with me, so no matter how general you’re being, sooner or later I’ll know. Though I must admit I’m now trying not to guess. It’s one thing when I have all the straight guys I know to choose from, and quite another to guess when it’s only work-related acquaintances I talk to relatively often. Now it’s… kind of intrusive. And stupid. Just try looking at someone near you and try to decide whether he (or she, of course) has a crush on you, and you’ll know what I mean. It would mean presuming too much.

Or not a crush. Call it what you like; just don’t call it romance. Have you read romances? I had, once or twice (I have a defense: I have a sister too. Younger sister. Is yours younger or older? My sister’s never kept a diary, though). And have you ever tried gay romances? I know you most likely haven’t; never mind. If you had, you’d know they’re different. Two men just aren’t supposed to fall into each other’s arms after much adversity everywhere and to fade into happily ever after and a bed of roses. I have learned this very well — after I tried my sister’s romance books and *before* I tried the gay ones.

I’d be glad to paint a kitchen with someone, though. I think. I’ve never had an occasion to try. It’s a settling-down thing. Men aren’t supposed to settle down with each other, I’m told. It’s what women want. Perhaps you should ask your sort-of-girlfriends to paint that kitchen. Or maybe not. You sound like someone who pays attention to people; I guess you’d know what they want better than anybody else.

I don’t think you’re a stalker. Not anymore — if I ever did. I hope I’m not wrong. I *am* a workaholic, and I’m certainly very bad about paying attention to people. Maybe that’s why I try to listen and ask questions. It’s easy, you know? It’s information. It’s knowledge. It’s interesting, and I know what to do with it. Now people themselves, it’s quite a different story. I’ve been burned before, but I’m still stupid about them. I feel sometimes I miss all the clues; that everyone knows things I don’t — people liking each other, hating each other, stuff like this, I have to be told before I start noticing. I’m hopeless.

And I’m not fair. Fair-haired, maybe. Also workaholic, but you know that, and hopelessly socially inept, but you now know that too.

8a.

Ignore the last letter. Or at least its end. Self-pity is one vice I promised myself never to have.

9.

I’ve read it all. Perhaps it’s good that I’ve been writing to you. Someone asked me today about you. Why I’ve been watching you. It was a friend of mine, so when he asked me if I have a crush on you, I said that perhaps I do. He just shook his head. I’m not sure what he thinks now. See, it’s me who’s hopeless.

Who told you all this stuff? You do realize that people are different? Not all women want marriage and babies, so it stands to reason not all men want casual sex and nothing more. Write your own romance, with a happy ending, even if it doesn’t turn to be me. I’m not sure what one should do in the end of a romance. I could find out, of course. Do you want me to write a romance for you?

And never mind about missing all the clues. People who catch those clues, how can they know whether they’re right or wrong? Perhaps your approach is a more honest one. Perhaps we should all just listen to each other and stop guessing. And say something if we want to be heard.

I really want to invite you to help painting my kitchen. I think the wall needs freshening. I can’t even begin to guess how you would answer, though. Have you guessed who I am? What if you have a wrong idea? What if you agree and then are disappointed? I went and stole a romance book from one of the secretaries. I’ll put it back, I promise. It ends with a kiss. Would you mind me kissing you? Would I know how to kiss you? Do I know what I’m doing?

No, I’m sure I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m more afraid of stopping than I’m afraid of going on. Answer me. Ignore the last paragraph if you want to, just answer me something. Anything. I want to talk to you. No, I’ve talked to you today already, but it wasn’t like this. I really want to get your reply to this letter.

10.

No, I haven’t guessed who you are. Well, I think I haven’t. I think I stopped guessing and just froze when I read your invitation. Any guess of mine is bound to come out wrong. I’m afraid to say yes. I can’t ignore it. If I say no, I’ll be sorry. Did you know I’m hopeless at choosing? You shouldn’t ever ask me what color to paint the kitchen walls — I’ll take a week at least to decide.

I knew this by myself, actually — about choosing, I mean. And about men and romance too, I guess, but I had it all confirmed to me, and it wasn’t nice. I shouldn’t have been hurt by reality knocking at my door, but I think I was.

I’m whining again. Please tell me when I start whining. I don’t usually do that — you’re having a bad effect on me.

And Rose’s already looking for her book. Please put it back, or it’ll be impossible to work.

Were you nervous when your friend asked you? Are you beginning to have second thoughts? What if he gets that you’re serious and becomes annoyed with you? Or with me? I think you aren’t having second thoughts yet, but you might be. You never know.

Don’t write a romance. I think you’re better at letter-writing. And a kiss at the end… it doesn’t sound like a happy ending when you say it like this, does it? A kiss is an end of a romance. Just listen to it.

I don’t know about kissing. Don’t think about it. They say it’s natural. Just… don’t plan anything, okay? Plans tend to come out badly. Except perhaps you should plan buying paint, because I can’t help you there, as I’ve already said.

Yes, by the way, I’ll help you paint your kitchen if you still want me to.

11.

Peter,

You’re not whining. Except about Rose, perhaps , but I’ve already put her book back. You can get back to work safely, but since tomorrow’s Saturday, I’ll be waiting for you near the supply store two blocks down from the office. I plan to watch you choosing paint.

12.

Note on the kitchen table:

Derek,

I’ve got to go home — my cat needs to be fed. Sorry I didn’t turn off the TV — I didn’t want to wake you up. I hope you wake up once the game’s over, though; the couch’s too short for you to sleep on comfortably. Anyway, I’ll be back tomorrow to finish the back wall.

Peter

P.S.: I forgot — sometimes romance *starts* with a kiss.