friskin

I went over to S and B's to feed Uma this weekend. Spent a while there this morning after rolling out of bed and throwing on some pants and my good boots. I felt guilty when I had to park in a stranger's snow bank two blocks away. When I got upstairs I was surprised at how happy I could be in someone else's apartment, on someone else's couch, with someone else's cat, reading someone else's book. Even so, I kept expecting them to come home while I was there and be angry with me. Strange, since I clearly couldn't have done anything wrong. The worst I can say about the whole thing is that I noticed that S left a pair of underwear and a couple dirty socks on top of his laundry basket, and (to my amusement!) this made me mildly uncomfortable. What is one to do about that, anyhow? A few days ago, Bruce left a bag of foam balls in my car after I dropped him off. I took the bag to my room, and stashed it temporarily in the closet. I threatened to hold it up for ransom, of course, but eventually yielded and returned it to its rightful owner. When I gave it to him, he opened it and looked in. An expression of shock, almost disdain, came across his face, and my immediate thought was, "Oh no!!! Somehow, some intimate article of clothing has found its way in there and from now on I'll be too mortified to ever see or speak to him ever again!!!"

That (thank goodness!) wasn't the case. He thought that I had kept some of the balls as hostages. Mortification was narrowly avoided. I don't know why I would have cared so much anyway

Much of the rest of my day was spent sewing together a Miss Poppet No Face, and day dreaming about the man on the Paris Metro. Cross-car eyes. He had a newspaper, I had a scarf. I got off before he did. Later that day, though, we recognized eachother at a shopping center. He was working at the food court. I had a slice of pizza. More eyes and smiles and flutters and so on, but never letting on to the other girls. The only words passed, if there were any passed at all, when I finished my lunch and got up to look for the trash can. He pointed it out, maybe in French, maybe in English (I'm sure he knew where I was from), or perhaps with just a gesture. I might have thanked him in French or English. It doesn't matter now... I don't even remeber what he looks like. Just that feeling.

Happens all the time, I suppose.