Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Two options: I can either knock on her door right now or slip a hand-written letter under it. For the last three days I’ve been waiting for some form of reply to my phone calls. Since implementing the three-call rule, I’ve dialed twice. If there’s no pick up on call three, it’s finished.
I suppose I fancy myself some kind of a writer and having this confidence, I would like to play to my strength. All I need are a few good lines and a little honesty. But a letter feels so indirect and almost archaic. Also, I just finished writing it by hand and the spelling of “sincerely” at the letter’s close looks very questionable. I continue to look over it is because I can faintly hear the sound of a slamming door.
Perhaps I have made the situation too black and white. But reason and logic have a funny way of leaving when you’re standing six doors down with letter in hand and heart in throat.
Earlier, back in my room, I stared at the ceiling and followed the pipes with my eyes from one side of the room to the other and back again. I read some poetry. I felt worse. My thoughts just kept recycling. I think I should talk to her. I think I should let her be.
I asked my roommate what to do.
nutgraf
Perhaps I have made the situation too black and white. But reason and logic have a funny way of leaving when you’re standing six doors down with letter in hand and heart in throat.
“Walk away and leave it alone,” he told me.
And it’s at this point, after he said only six words, that I know exactly what I have to do.
Go after her.
I know that I cannot walk away and leave it alone, not this woman. That simple sentence was enough of a gut check to let me know how I really felt, because you never know how you really feel until you ask for some advice and someone tells you the exact opposite.
Like the time I wanted to buy a 1995 Mercedes-Benz E420 with 150,000 miles on it. My friend told me it would be “totally righteous.” I knew instantly that none of my friends were mechanics and my $6,000 should be better spent elsewhere.
I think I bought some used books instead.
Now that I knew what to do, I started to think about her again and with a little sense of optimism. The last time I talked to her, she told me that she’d read Hesse’s “Siddhartha” and didn’t like it.
Who doesn’t like “Siddhartha?”
That question alone hurried me down the stairs and across the parking lot to the north side of Daisy Hill. I barely made it before the 11 p.m. mark and sprinted up four flights of steps.
And here I am in the lobby, trying to catch my breath before walking down the north wing and either knocking on her door or using this letter.
And it’s up to me. No roommate to check how I really feel. I’m in front of her door, reciting the 23 Psalm, trying to remember what comes after the green pastures. Gathering what little energy I have left, I turn around and head home, accidentally tripping one of the restricted exit alarms on my way.
I apologize to the deskies. I tell them I wasn’t thinking.
Dykman is a Westwood freshman in English.
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