I can see your face reading this. Just in case you’re wondering, no, I’m not a ghost, I’m purely being hypothetical. I am a little psychic, maybe. I can see you, a chap, ashen feet up the table, focusing with a furrowed brow. Your stunted chin follicles reluctant on blossoming; they want to be pursued. Pleaded with. Written poems for. They want the earth, moon and constellations amidst. They however sprouted sparse strands after sacharine cords were played for them. The farcical concotion you rubbed on your chin didn’t do the job, did it? The moustache on the other hand is rabid, it’s so wild it catches debris, I wouldn’t be startled if it bred bugs under. It has its own personality – makes you look like a generic Mexican movie character. Time will run its course, maybe you will rock that biblical beard, maybe you won’t. I can see you, a damsel. I see them edges. In all your glam or lack thereof – speculatively you could be home seated easy, definitely braless, eating from the pan. You’ve been pensive. The lad from Instagram isn’t catching your subliminals. The like was actually you saying ‘I’ve been noticing you for quite some time and i would like you to be my beau’. The like could be a marriage proposal for that matter, only its voice is muffled under other acknowledgements from people who know not what he means to you. The like might as well be just another statistic. I feel you, and I applaud the guts – no matter how flimsy. You are nerves better than I am. See there is this girl I like (always starts like that) yet I can’t text her for shit, not even to save my life. I could draw an ideal description of her, I won’t. I’ll wrap it so gingerly in nine little words; beautiful. What’s the worst that could happen if you let her know, a no? People opine. I could vanish that’s what could happen. Maybe when we get more acquainted we could have discourse over a drink; I’d tell you how better to pursue that guy because we men aren’t wired to notice delicate intricacies, let alone likes. Then you could give insight on how I could tell her I like her without quipping ‘Hey, my name’s Microsoft, can I crash at your place tonight?’ and be met by a scorn or even worse a disparaging chortle. You promise, pinky swear? Nobody does that anymore? In summary I’m asking you to be my wing woman and please don’t tell me ‘we should do that sometime’, nobody ever means it, not a single soul. That is the essence of this piece so without any more chitter – chatter let’s dive into it; things we say but don’t mean.
This drew inspiration from a Friends episode I watched. The one where Chandler couldn’t desist from telling Rachel’s boss ‘I’ll call you sometime’ knowing well he won’t – at least not in a million years. She might have licked her fingers. She might have been engrossed in her phone. He might have dubbed you ‘mama’ but you loath the word because your ex used to call you that and still broke your trust. How do you end dates when they go tits up knowing damn too well it could be the last time either of you hears or sees the other. Oft-times we would let them down easy, give them a little hope of a second date because we don’t want to seem abrasive. We are good people anyway, right? Used to false promises, what’s another one. So we summon our inner Chandler and say ‘I’ll call you sometime.’ It takes immense boldness to tell another person you don’t like them, don’t wish to have any further relation to them. It’s easier and effective that way but at what cost. So most opt for the coy – sometime.
I don’t have a clue on what to say when I see someone I know. If they haven’t seen me I’ll stare down and ignore them. If too late for an act then stick a fork in me, I’m done (Friends). We bump into old friends, school/work mates and engage in painful small talk, it’s so writhing you could pass out. Moreso ones that sound scripted. How have you been? Where are you going? How are you anyway? It’s been a while bana. All interspersed with oblivious nods. Then exchange numbers and maybe say; we should get together one weekend, classic. No, we won’t call. No, we won’t get together. The numbers would be another contact in our phone. We are both cognizant of this. It’s sheer politeness, there’s nothing more to it. Yes, we know each other but what would we talk about when the meeting pans out? Hold inane gab littered by akward pauses while formulating an excuse to avert the excruciating conversation. We’ll say something like ‘Anyway I have another engagement, thanks for your time’ and take off.
Oh, you have a nice dig! I know, would you like to know where I got the sheers from? No, I don’t. it’s decent but I’m actually not interested in anything. I like the house but that’s just about it. It was a mere compliment to break the silence. It is intuitive; you say something nice to make the other person feel appreciated – no strings attached. I have lady friends who do it all the time. Tell another lass how her weave is cute and all then revert after she walks away and say the most callous things, very cunning those ones. They could convince you to continue wearing a mop on you head.
It is limitless, the things we say. Maybe soon I’ll get the courage to call things for what they are, but then soon is relative. It could be months or even years. I hope you find your soon hastily enough. *I will work on that maybe I won’t, but first I need to find a way to text that girl. Turn my phone off and count on lady luck. Hopefully she won’t tell me ‘you are funny’ or ‘that was cute’ (recipes for the friendzone). I’ll get to the rubicon and text her – sometime.