It was about the third time in a week that she had blown me off, subtly or otherwise. She even was so bold as to damn me with an invitation to lunch tomorrow morning. Despite the fact I find the notion of a lunch date loathsome, she had already played that card last week at my expense, and this time I was having none of it.

I asked her if me kissing her was a mistake. In short, she said probably. The long version of it is what I’ve heard a hundred times; more or less, she spouted some generic words about just getting out of a long relationship and not wanting to be involved.

These are the kind of words that once would have shattered my existence, but I’m harder now, or so I’d like to think.

I told her it was OK, that I didn’t need to be with her. I’ve heard the “just friends” speech too many times to accept that as a response, so I elaborated my position: I am not looking for a relationship either, but I like her too much to simply talk about current events and the weather.

At this point we had a few more exchanges, but nothing of substance. I tried to reiterate, without saying it of course, that I know what I want.

In what might be considered progress by some people’s standards, she told me she doesn’t know what she wants.

She needs time.

Time.

I’ve been told that time mends anything, but there’s nothing broken here. In this context, beyond her, speaking on behalf of the entire female gender, time is an excuse. Time is an opportunity to grow apart. Time is a massive illusion designed to make people forget. Time is what destroys hearts and makes them hard, it’s what tells you things will be OK. Eventually.

So here I stand, with some pseudo-resolution. I have been sold artificial closure, but what more can I ask for? She will never understand me, and I will never understand her. It is what it is. It is the one constant in my life.

It is disappointment.

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