(If you missed the first two installments, scroll down and read from Part I and up. That should get you up to speed. If you care, that is.)
After I left Emily's at 6:30 in the am, I laid in my bed, staring at the ceiling, attempting the third-times-a-charm fall asleep method, but I couldn't shake the feeling of deja vu.
Our last night in Derry, we squeezed onto a couch as the sun came up, kissing and talking about where everything stood between us. Just the way she looked at me was enough to make me a shell of the man I was supposed to be. I, as a whole person, was "goo".
Last night was ended the same way--on the couch as the sun came up, talking and kissing, with her looking at me in that same exact way that makes me not me. I'm a sucker.
I slept for 3 1/2 hours, and that definitely wasn't enough. The only consolation in that is that at least I wasn't hungover. As fucked up as it is that I experienced deja vu Saturday night /Sunday morning correlating to my last night in Ireland with Emily, Sunday afternoon was more of the same, only reminiscent of the day that I met up with her in Dublin.
She's habitually slow in regards to getting ready in the morning, and Sunday morning was a direct replay of when we met at her hotel in Dublin. She was flighty, slow, and took her ol' sweet time getting her things together. Both times I could've very easily been annoyed, but I was more happy to be with her than anything else. And if anyone says that I'm too forgiving, you can eat my ass.
Are you catching on to the cyclical nature of our relationship? It gets better. Or worse, depending on if you're a half-full or or a half-empty type of person.
Our whole day was comprised of fragemented bits and memory inducing pieces of our dysfunctional, 9 year relationship.
9 years. Very few people reading this are older than I am, but for most of you, 9 years comprises a fairly large chunk of the amount the time that you've been alive. She's been around, left, around, left--rinse, repeat, wash--for one-fucking-third of my life.
I can't believe it, either.
We left her apartment--that's dangerously close to my old favorite bar, Lyle's--at 2:30 pm and walked towards the Walker Arts Center's grand reopening. There were far more people than I wanted to deal with, especially considering the number of answers that I wanted to get from this girl. I didn't want to be around a lot of people. So, we walked on.
As we were crossing the pedestrian bridge over Hennepin and Lyndale, Emily made a comment that didn't register at first.
"Didn't we go through this park when you walked me back to Jesse's?"
I didn't understand, but when she mentioned Our Lady Peace, the significance hit me in the face harder than a burlap sack full of baby carcasses. Is that the plural? Carcassi? Regardless, it hit me hard.
Pssst, this is where you have to click the link to get the backstory here. That way, I don't have to make this longer than need be.
Anyhow, we walked through Loring Park, and planned on getting something to eat at a restaurant along Nicollet. The conversation was a little awkward at times, so how do we remedy that?
A drink, of course!
We settled on The Local, and if you're not familiar with the significance, this will fill you in, in detail. Basically, it was the very last place I ever saw Emily, about two years ago.
We had a drink, and talked about things that mattered. None of the "How are your parents?" bullshit that we don't need to weed through. This was heavy conversation that both of us handled pretty well, all things considering.
We are adults, after all.
As the Local is super expensive drink-wise, even mid-Sunday afternoon, we set off to Pizza Luce to eat and enjoy happy hour. More conversation, and that conversation turned to seemingly harmless flirting. We were both only one drink deep at this point, so it's not even right to blame it on the alcohol. That's just how we are.
We could not talk for, say, two years...hey, wait! That's how long it's been! What a coincidence. Anyhow, we're the type of people that are always going to have an attraction to each other. We get together, and the invetible happens; we stand close, hold hands, hug and act exacly like all those couples that I abhor.
I wouldn't have it any other way.
We left Luce and were on our way back up to my place so that I could change, when we passed Rock Bottom Brewery. We popped in there for a pint of stout, and it wasn't until Emily mentioned that it tasted like black licorice that I decided it was icky. Up til then, I thought it tasted like a combination of coffee and chocolate, but the second she planted the black licorice seed in my brain, I couldn't finish my beer. I hate black licorice.
The walk from dowtown to my house is somewhere around 20 blocks. Not a long walk by any means, but long enough to sober me up.
I wish I could pass blame on the Smithwick's for showing her a story that included her, but all I could do is wait for her reaction after I fired up my computer and said that she should read this.
I'm either really stupid, or really, really stupid.
I laid down on my bed in wait to find out which.
[To be continued]