Sticks and Bones

The first part of a chronicle of a crush-turned-obsession. I'm sorry, Julie.


To experience this in natural reading order go to A Bright, Ironic Hell: The Straight Read .


Also, try Satellite Dance and Crystal Delusions--Parts 2 and 3, respectively--complete.

Thursday, October 9, 2008

Next, We'll Try the Drunken Advice (10/08/08 Wednesday)

I told Gay-Lynn yesterday. She had gone about the library a few weeks ago with a camera, taking casual head shots of us all. First thing, I walked into her office, closed the door, and asked her to send me Julie's picture. "You aren't going to do anything mean with it, are you?" she asked. "No, no, no, no, no," I said, a tad surprised she felt a need to ask me. "This is purely for my own enjoyment." "She is beautiful." I murmured reverent assent then said, "I had tea with her, outside work, not this past Saturday but the one before." Gay-Lynn clasped her hands in front of her mouth and squeaked, "Ooh!" I hated to disappoint her, but added, "I got the 'nice guy' line." She sank. "Well," she said, "give it time. Things can change; the longer you work together, the better she'll get to know you."

I left her office with one more ally and cheerleader, someone else who will look at both Julie and me differently, puzzling over Julie as I do, meanwhile sympathizing with me, wondering why she's passed me up. Or, perhaps, wondering what could be wrong with me that would put her off. Whimsical confidence fantasizes such a groundswell of indignance over Julie's rejection of me that she, at worst, caves in and gives me a second chance; or, at best, admits to herself the error of her philosophy and welcomes me back with renewed appreciation. This seems not so far removed from that fanciful hope of having everyone know about my crush except Julie, at whom it finally jumps out, as at a surprise party when the lights go up. All fantasy, I know, especially with that thick-shelled nut breaking all my tools.


*****


Tomorrow night at six: My latest D-Hour. It's going to happen; I just have to avoid working myself into a knot of dread. There seem all kinds of reasons not to do this, but I'll make no attempt to identify them; consequently, undefined, they gain no existence. I rode with Mike tonight and told him of the mutual desk hour and that I was going to "work on" Julie, but I didn't clue him in on the precise strategy, knowing how he felt about my previous one. I was afraid he might dampen it with caution. He's on my side; he just doesn't indulge my fancy as much as Stacey or Hinckley would. He said tonight, "You said she told you she had a good time at the coffee shop, but maybe she didn't." I had to ask him to repeat it. It was too sober. Maybe not what I really want right now. All I want is to not talk myself down from the throne of resolve. That and a change in my attitude at work from the serious regression I've suffered this week. I've hardly been able to say hello, and she looks right through me. But I'm psyching myself out.

In the workroom today Angie showed me a movie she likes. It had Sharon Stone in it, whom I told Angie I didn't like. Angie was disbelieving and asked me about this actress and that actress, of all of whom I emphatically denied any appreciation. "Well, who do you like?" she said. I pointed to the picture on the storage cabinet over my desk. "Who's that?" "Gillian Anderson." "Oh, she's alright." "Alright?" "She's cute, I guess." She tried a few more on me, and when she got to Angelina Jolie I exclaimed stridently, "No!" "Well, you know what you like, and you can look at her any time you like." "I do," said, looking at Julie's profile at the discharge counter. "I look at her every day."

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