Going Out

Women I know write me from time to time.  It will begin with something akin to a flurry and then will taper off.  And then, too soon, I don't hear from them at all.  I used to believe that it was something I wrote and would think and think of what that might have been.  But that is dumb.  That is not why they quit writing at all.  They only wrote at first because of some dissatisfaction in their own lives, and they believed for a moment that I might be a bright spot.  I understand that now, so when the emails I send in response to something they have written go unanswered, I know they have found a new interest in their own hometown.  Still, I wish that they would just say that.  

"Dear, You have really been a fun distraction through a boring and tender time, but you know we've been through this all before and you surely must remember now as I do why we do not see one another any longer.  And while it is not that difficult to write an email, you know this is not the era of email.  If you want to know what I'm doing, you should follow my tweets or friend me on Facebook.  But I've met someone who. . . ." 

Etc.  

But I know that is what the silence means, so really, they don't need to write it.  

Still, it is always difficult to lose an audience.  

Last night, I went out with an old friend for dinner.  We went to a new Mexican restaurant owned by some people he knows.  My town has a dearth of good restaurants, and as I told you, I will change mine, so when he called, I was in without hesitation.  It turned out to be a better restaurant than most here, but it is still a "here" place.  We ate at the bar as is our want.  Two men at a table, really. . . . So we sat and chatted with people we knew who were also there.  And the conversations would go something like this.

"Who are you all sitting with?"

"Oh, that's Jed Thomson.  He's a contractor."

"I think I've heard of him." 

"It's and old Centerville name.  The family has been here forever.  Jed and my husband have business together, but they've known one another since they were kids."

"Yea, I think I've heard of the family."  

Then the friend would turn to me.

"Why didn't you come over and say hello?"

"I didn't want to embarrass you in front of your decent friends." 

I could see it in everyone's eyes, the unspoken pain--"Why do you always have to be an asshole."  

In truth, the guacamole was good as was the ceviche and the sangria.  By the time we ordered dinner, I was no longer hungry and was a bit drunk, so my judgement on it is suspect.  And I will eat there again at quiet times when there is no crowd, and probably alone or with some scrappy girl I've just shot with who is used to eating at the Red Lobster on big occasions.  I like watching them sniff at things like guacamole and ceviche and having them wonder at the coffee beans in Sambuca after dinner.  And they are not usually dressed in the manner of people in this part of town, so that is fun, too.  

But last night the girls came in Friday night Paris Hilton dresses looking around for someone suitable and worthy of congress.  My friend, a bit younger than I, had the wrong seat and I the right one for watching the room which was fine with me, but I felt guilty because I was not a participant and he would most likely be if the opportunity arose.  A group of pretty-ish, well-dressed girls sat to his right.  I was on his left, so for him to turn and look was making the obvious more so.  Undaunted, however, he struck up a conversation with the girl next to him.  And to my surprise, she did not turn away.  I don't go out any more, so everything surprises me now.  Especially social interaction.  

And it was this--all of this--that made the restaurant less than a success for me.  I cannot socialize any more.  Sliding up the ladder, so to speak, from my hillbilly roots after college, I think this must have been fascinating.  Later, having fallen into places I never belonged, I know it was.  And later still, married to a woman of enviable but not spectacular "breeding," I was bored.  And now. . . well, my hillbilly relatives provide me with more entertainment than any of what I encountered on my Friday night outing.  

And now that I think about it, maybe I'm somewhat wrong about why women quit writing me emails.  Not completely.  I know that they eventually find someone to absorb their interest.  But my own willingness to be "an asshole" surely plays a part.  I'm starting to believe that maybe my behavior isn't as charming as I apparently think it to be.