I don't know where I'm going, but I'm here

Okay, so we go back to Donald's apartment. It's great. Two blocks from the beach, a few more from downtown. I'm not sure why we've gone back, but I have to pee, so I don't complain.

Bathrooms. Don't we all check them out? His was clean but not spotless. No judgment there. He had a cute black and white framed photograph on the wall, of a kitten with bubbly suds on its wet head... it was possible that he took the photo. The shower had clear doors, and there was very little hard water deposit on it. That is impressive with the water that comes out of the pipes here. Some hair gel, saline solution for contacts, Tom's of Maine toothpaste, a not too run down toothbrush and a well used bar of soap on the sink counter. I don't go through the cupboards. I'm nosy, but not that nosy.

Back in the living room, Michelle and Donald are exchanging CD's. I notice that the bottom button or two on Michelle's shirt have come undone, and her belly button is showing. Interesting.

Next up, Donald gives her a stack of Consumer Reports he's printed out for her; she's buying a new car (her soon to be ex got the Mustang), and he's helping her do her research.

Are you bored yet? Because I was. Out of my mind bored. I'm sitting on the couch, listening to some funky polka music that's the theme for some even funkier movie I've never heard of, and the two of them are going on about cars. I do see several more framed photographs on the floor which confirm to me that it's one of Donald's hobbies. They aren't horrid. I don't comment on them to him though, because of his and Michelle's intense conversation.

I'm thinking to myself that I'd rather be at home reading my Steinbeck book (East of Eden), blogging, or watching TV. Then I worry that I've spent so much time by myself, that I don't know how to just hang out with other people anymore. I daydream about Antonio Banderas in Love and Shadows. I try to remember if I paid my Macy's bill. I pretend to be curious about the Honda CRV.

Finally, around 6:30 or so, I realize that I haven't eaten anything for 12 hours other than a mocha and a beer. We decide to go get a bite to eat at Q's, a sushi bar.

Oh what joy. I hate seafood. I hate raw seafood even more. Basically, if it swims in it's own excrement, I don't want to eat it. I don't like the smell of it, nothing about it. However, Q's has a good beer list, so I don't complain. Out loud anyway.

I order a Velvet Hammer. That's half Guinness and half hard apple cider. It's one of my favorite drinks. They don't have apple cider though, just raspberry cider. I get a taste of it. Alcoholic kool aid. I don't like it. So then I order a wheat beer. The waitress comes back. Nope, all out.

I smile. Get a Newcastle and order nachos. It was either that or buffalo wings. Michelle and Donald put their heads together for the sushi feast they are embarking on. It's kinda cute actually. Makes me think a sushi bar might be fun for a first date. Well, if I ate sushi. Or, for that matter, went on dates.

Nachos are not so good for dates. Messy, sour cream all over, can't really be eaten easily with hands, nor well with a fork. Eh. A lesson learned. Michelle is cutting her sushi in half before she eats it, has two and a half pieces and is "stuffed."

On to the James Joyce. An "Irish Pub" that has live music this evening. Really LOUD live music that's amplified for a theatre, even though the place is a little cubby of a bar. This is where my old person comes forward. "It's just too damn loud. Can't hear myself think. Going to go deaf listening to this."

This is an interior monologue by the way. In reality, I'm screeching for a Black Velvet at the bar, which Donald reluctantly pays for. He asked if I wanted anything. Doesn't that mean he's offering to pay for it? (Don't worry, I paid him back later. )

Michelle has now decided that her ovaries are hurting (don't ask) and goes outside. "No, no. You guys stay here."

She's not usually a martyr.

Of course, we leave, go back to his place, and he puts in a DVD. It's now past 9pm, and I need to get home to my Charlie boy. Michelle stays there for a while. Remember, she's staying with me for the weekend? And remember she said that Donald was just a "good friend"? Yes, that's the signal I'm getting from both of them.

No. Really. I mean it.

She comes home only about 15 minutes after me. I tell her that Donald obviously is beguiled by her. She says she thinks he and I have lots in common, that we'd make a good pair. Other than both being blue-eyed and hating olives, I don't quite get that, but whatever. I tell her what I said in the blog yesterday:

"If he's interested in you, then he's most likely not going to be interested in me."

And then, she stammers a bit, and says,

"Well... uh... "
"What?"
"I just know you're going to give me a heavy sigh if I say this."
"What? Did you sleep with him?"
"No! Not that. Just uh..."
"What is it? Tell me." (I'm not a patient person)
"I... uh... I'm going to spend the night tomorrow and Monday with shithead (okay, she used his name, but my word is more descriptive). "
"Oh."
"And you know how Donald was going to have a dinner party tonight? Well, I told him that I was staying with shithead and asked if I could bring him (! no comment. Shut your mouth Becky. It's not your life.). Donald said he'd feel uncomfortable with it, and so he changed the night of the dinner."

"Uh huh." (aren't you proud of me so far?)

"But then, Donald said that he hoped that someday I'd have more than just friendly feelings for him."

Oh yeah? That's a shocker. See, Michelle hasn't been single for 19 years. She doesn't know that she can't just flirt with everyone without misunderstandings. When she was married, it was like a little shield or something. She needs to be careful.

"I told him that I can't predict the future, but that I am not feeling anything but friendship for him right now."

Which, he will read as "please wait for me, I'm not ready just yet, but I might be, let me get back to you on that."

Meanwhile, as a consolation prize, she's offering me up to him. Like that's a solution. He's enthralled with her, and he's going to be nice to me because I'm her friend.

Poor guy. He's a sweet, 30-year old man, and I see pining in his future.