magicbeans. nothing if not awkward.

He's always had trouble with Sundays (sitting there in the socks that she bought for him when last summer was still in full bloom) in spite of their arbitrariness.

He needs more light. Something about coming to this realization on an overcast day is significant.

He describes this Sunday in a handful of brief, third-person sketches that might become the basis of something longer.

He looks in the fridge for something to eat. Frozen peas, three bottles of beer, a jar of creamy peanut butter. Which is not to say that this is all there is in the fridge, it's just what caught his eye. He takes out the jar of peanut butter, unscrews the cap (dropping it on his foot, then the floor), takes a large spoon out of the silverware drawer, and paces the apartment as he eats. Putting the spoon in the sink when he's done, he notices the martini shaker and briefly contemplates making a drink. Of course it's only five o'clock and there's not enough vodka left anyway.

---

Later, I watched Magnolia with Rob. Midway through Chris called. 'What are you doing?' he asked.

'Watching a movie. Why, what's up?'

'I think I just got dumped,' he says. 'But don't let me interrupt your movie.'

'Are you sure?' He does sound okay, and had been talking about how this was coming for a while. 'Call me again later if you want.'

---

Later still, a MySpace message to Marisa:

So. In case you haven't guessed, I'm a little bit broken. This is not an excuse. (You should probably read that as: This is an excuse, but I wish that it wasn't.) I have this need to qualify things. Have I told you that already? What I mean to say is, I should have called you last Sunday right after you gave me your number. I must have noticed it within half an hour of your sending the message. I put your number into my phone. I went up to the roof of my building where I get better phone service. I've probably thought about calling it at least once a day since then. Does that make me sound like a loser? Or is it somehow endearing? I honestly have no idea. (Obviously I'd rather seem endearing.) That's probably part of why I haven't called. Probably part of why I have trouble with phones in general. I'm uncomfortable with not knowing exactly what's on the other end. I'm actually very afraid of the unknown. (I don't think I've ever put that in words before.)

So, um. If I were to say here that I'm going to call you tomorrow, or today, Monday, but after I've slept, so experientially tomorrow, if I put that into words, and then see that you've logged in and read them, will that actually force me to call? And it might very well be awkward, especially on the phone. But I'm still interested, and I shouldn't be afraid of the unknown in this case, because with the expectation of awkward things can really only get better. Right?

-b

When I finished writing, and sent it, there was a message waiting for me in my MySpace inbox, from Jamie, a girl who had messaged me on okCupid, maybe six months ago. I wrote back to her once or twice at the time, but then nothing. My okCupid correspondences never made it past a few short letters, with the exception of Taika, from Finland, and our exchanges have also somewhat oddly trailed off.

Jamie wrote, 'Hmmm.. And you're vegan.'

'Yes it's true. And also apparently a bit of a jerk when it comes to responding to messages from people online.'

I looked at her profile, and among her dozen or so listed friends was Jonah, the boy who sent me Marisa's first note. It's a small, small world.