32. The Name Of The Poet

It was impossible for me not to feel excited when you told me you liked to read. Books are my favourite things. You asked me what sorts of books I read and I enthusiastically listed a number of authors at random. You told me you’d read some of them — two or three, or maybe it was four. I was so happy to hear it that I couldn’t properly process your words.

It had always been difficult to find people who were interested in what I read, but now here you were, standing right in front of me. I asked what you’d been reading lately. You responded with a book of poems by someone I was unfamiliar with. I asked you to repeat the name of the poet, so that I’d remember it. You did so with a smile.

And then suddenly, you had to go. You said you were supposed to meet a friend soon. I was naturally disappointed because I wanted to keep talking to you. I knew I didn’t have much time, so I hastily asked if you’d like to meet up later, to chat further about our shared interest.

You paused in thought for a moment and I knew immediately it wouldn’t work out. You said you were sorry, but you didn’t think you’d have time. I smiled and nodded, and you went on your way. It simply wasn’t meant to be.

As I stood there, alone, in the remains of your presence, I couldn’t help but feel sad. Was it something I’d said that had scared you off? Was it the intensity of my interest in books? Was it that I’d smiled too much or not enough? Or was it something outside of my control entirely — maybe you were just having a bad day?

There was no answer to these questions. Any possible response would be a guess. It would tell me nothing conclusive about what had actually happened. I had to accept I’d never know and that there had been no way to guarantee the result I wanted.

I wanted. It was difficult to admit this, even to myself. But the rejection was painful because my desire was real. My inconspicuous need for connection had given birth to an intense desire while I was talking to you. It was born and I was immediately under its spell.

When the desire finally dissipated, so did the pain. All that is left now is a memory. Already the name of the poet has vanished from my mind. And soon the remainder will be nothing but a whisper in a crowded stadium, fading rapidly into the emptiness of the past.