Pride cometh...

Last week I had a catch up drink with someone I used to work with. The same someone I used to have the crush on.

I don’t know, really, why we bother. He, out of some sense of obligation, perhaps, to someone who obviously struggles to be social, and me, well, I enjoy his company, even if I do feel a little dissatisfied at the end of our very occasional catch ups.

At least now I don’t feel the intensity of the crush I once did. And I will be honest that it was never anything other than a play thing to toy with in my mind; the thought of actually going out with him is something I know would not have ever worked for me! Excuse the cliché, but a crush on him was like admiring an Italian sports car, knowing you don’t have to deal with its temperamental nature, its always being at the mechanics, not being able to take it out in the rain for fear of damaging the paint work, never mind the constant worry that it is being stolen out of the garage while you’re sleeping, and the insurace! Oh, the insurance! So, a crush was a nice (safe) way to feel the warm and fuzzies (and the green eyes) without ever worrying that it was "real".

Having said that, I can’t deny that whenever he would momentarily rest his hand on my knee as he made a point in the conversation, I would feel a little flustered. I’m only human.

So anyway, we met after work and had a few beers and talked. We talked about work. We talked about love. About God. Or the lack of God. About sex. About attraction. About nesting pigeons and Thailand sex tours. About sport. About books. About patting tigers and about fitting washing machines into tiny laundries. We sat in the evening air, which turned to a drizzle, which turned to a downpour. And finally, as the bar staff packed away the seats around us, we stood to leave.

He offered to walk me to my train, but I brushed aside the notion. It wasn’t late, and he lived in the opposite direction. So he gave me hug goodnight and we both turned and walked in our opposite directions, with the rain pouring down on our sodden heads.

I managed about a dozen steps down Martin Place before I slipped on the slick paving, smashing my right knee into the concrete. Talk about coming down with a thump, literally.

The knee is still a vile green bloom of bruises (isn’t it amazing the colours that nature can create),.

The following day I had an email from another (male) friend. I had invited him and his girlfriend along to the catch up drink as the two lads knew each other, and I thought they got on quite well.
The email went something like:
Friend: So, how was last night?
Me: It was fun.
Friend: I just wanted you to know that I won’t accept an invite to have a drink with him.
Me: Oh? How come?
Friend: We have difference of opinions.
Me: So I shouldn’t tell you that he said to say hi?
Friend: Oh, it’s all civil if we are in the same room. Just I won’t go for drinks.
Me: Umm ok. Can I ask what the difference of opinions was about?
Friend: I’d rather not say.

I make polite comments about respecting his feelings, and I do understand, as there are people I rather not socialise with… but I just cannot fathom what would have upset him so much considering how friendly they once were. And now I feel a bit weird around both of them, as though I’ve stumbled into something I should not have.

I thought blokes were much more straight forward than this.