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"Yeah. Bye."

I barely hear him as he walks the hall of my apartment, the door squeaking closed as he shuffles down the creaking, wooden stairs.

'Yeah. Bye.' His voice echoes in my head.

Does he mean 'yeah, I want to see you?' or 'yeah, stop talking, bye'? He frustrates me at times. Or do I just misread everything, noticing non-existent signs, pitifully thinking a guy out there may be interested in me and not that I'm just a handy person to have around.

I shrug.

Nothing new to me, why bother thinking the overthought?

Damn. My place is a mess. And now it smells. Smells like him. His sweat. His hair that just falls over his eyes. His old worn out shoes he wears for who knows why.

I open the door to let the rest of him out and walk into my main room, searching for a lighter. I suddenly remember my pack of cloves half-hidden in my dresser drawer. They're so close I can taste them . . . then I could catch up to him outside, smoke with him, maybe bond? No, it's not worth it. Not worth comprimising for just a guy who probably could care less if I accompanied him.

I instead light my incense to erase his scent and memory, for the time being, anyway.

I should clean up. Dishes from a couple days ago cluttered my counters. My fridge wafts repugnant food. That food is probably a month old. Disgusting.

When did I become such a mess? Not just this dirt. This is easy stuff. A little dusting, vaccuming, and everything is gone. But my place is the metaphor for myself. Old shit I haven't dealt with for months that I don't want to see, to remember.

I hate remembering what I did for those eight or so weeks. It's damn embarrassing. To think I ever got involved with him. An old middle and high school friend. Sure, crush, for a couple of weeks here and there, never at the right time, never when he felt the same way. Funny thing, really, I only liked him when he had a girlfriend. He only liked me when he saw how the other guys suddenly took notice of me. Of course then I could care less for him, in that way, I mean. We were pals. My friend was hopelessly in love with him and yet she still looked for opportunites to set us up.

When I saw him again, four or five months ago, those memories resurfaced. The old inside jokes. The looks. The accusations of flirting.

Then I got smart. I realized it was either me or her, Sarah. I saw how she clung to him, how she was upset if he stayed away from the group, talking to me. Of course I asked him about her. He told me his feelings for her had faded and dropped to the ground with the leaves that year. Of course she was in love with him; she was raking the crackling leaves into a pile, ready to jump in as soon as it was big enough. I couldn't understand why. The mere thought of kissing him repulsed me.

But no. I didn't stop. I kept going. Laughing. Joking. Almost touching.

In the back of my mind, I knew what I was doing. Knew but didn't, wouldn't, couldn't admit. Was I, too, falling for him? No. Safely, no. Honestly, maybe, probably not.

I fell hard, though. Fell hard for the idea, the chase, the prize. I knew I could win. So I did. Somehow.

We were at Jeff's house with his parents. Jeff and his girlfriend. Me. Him. More teasing. I rested my feet on his footstool. Later I found that what was truly an innocent gesture on my part actually made him think of other things. We ended up at the movie afterwards, as a fluke, by ourselves, in a nearly empty theater, watching a movie closely parallel to our own games.

I wondered, abstractly and, as usual, I figured I was wrong. So I took my hair band, flicked his arm. Initially, he ignored me. So I did it again. And again. And again until I elicited a reaction and found I was not wrong, but more correct than I imagined. He grabbed my hand. My heart raced for some reason. I wanted to hold a hand, but not his, so I forgot it was his. I didn't know whose hand I wanted to hold, anybody's, really, so I tried to tell myself it was his hand I wanted to hold. He kept holding my hand, refusing to return either it or my hair band to me. The movie ended. The heroine jumped from a bridge, leaving her lover behind to wonder and ache for her.

We walked to the car and I shivered the entire block. Chattering teeth kept me silent. I still don't know why he didn't talk.

The car ride home was also in general silence. I drove, talking only about the movie and asking the directions back to his house. He mumbled "Right," "Left," and asked me to change the music.

Finally, I pulled into his driveway. We said goodbye.

Goodbye...I wish now that I had meant "Goodbye" when I said it. I wish I had left. But I wanted to know what was going on, what had happened just an hour ago, why and how. I wanted to tell him why it could not continue. All he said was "Goodbye. Thanks for the ride. See you later." He didn't make any moves toward inviting me to stay and talk, as he usually did.

The one who always sought the resoloution of conflict through talking didn't want to talk. And I, who hated any conflict to begin with, let alone resolving it through face to face talking, needed to talk.

I developed the sudden need to use the bathroom.

We walked quietly through the entryway. He still lived at home with his parents. Cheaper that way, he told me.

I stepped out of the bathroom, wiping my wet hands on my pants since apparently guys don't believe in hand towels. He was standing in front of me, talking on his cell phone with Mark, the Mark who was supposed to meet us at the theater but went to the wrong one. I tried not to show my disappointment that Mark was coming over. I needed to talk, to sort this out.

Mark arrived as they were talking. He decided to spend the night and wanted to go to bed right then.

He pulled the spare mattress out for Mark, right into the main room. Right where I wanted to talk.

I sat on the couch wondering how to appear "natural" and in control and how to form my emotions and ideas so I could turn them into words. My legs were stretched straight in front of me, taking up nearly both halves of the tiny couch. Mark flipped the lights off.

He sat on the couch as I quickly pulled my legs onto my cushion, dramatically and childishly drawing the imaginery line that separated my half from his.

Of course a basketball game between obscure teams was on. Thankfully, Mark objected. Instead, Mark joked about me and about him, sitting on a couch in the dark. I laughed. The idea of what Mark implied was absurd to me. We all talked of theology and doctrine, history and philosophy. As usual, my ideas were the most radical of us three. I stated ideas not even completely formed in my mind simply because I knew they could shock by their drastic contrast. I wanted to pull at their minds, though, to get them to see beyond their moldy world views.

My legs, curled beneath me, began to fall asleep. I had to stretch them out.

Why did I not just get up and say I needed to go home. Why wasn't I content to just leave, to let things go, to say to myself "Yes, something happened, and now, nothing more will happen. I know I've won and that's enough."

But I stretched my army green clad limbs onto his lap. I counted on him jokingly throwing them off or moving from the couch, only he must have been waiting for me to do just what I did. His hands found their way to my knees. Our talking grew silent and Mark must have fallen asleep. I thought nothing, only sensed the warmth I hadn't known before. The chills ran up my spine. This was something new. I like new. I like exhilerating.

That's why I didn't move my legs. That's why I didn't leave. I was too curious, too foolish.

After a couple of minutes I was desensitized. A week prior, simply his presence anywhere near my personal bubble (which encompassed at least two feet around me) made me cringe and jump away. I remembered that and turned, maneuvering closer to him, saying, "Weren't you telling me of that video game earlier?" I was too uncomfortable, again, still, to continue whatever it was that was happening.

I should have said, "I need to go. It's late. I have class in the morning."

I followed him into his room and we sat on the floor, the sudden light momentarily blinding me after he tossed some pillows on the floor and turned on the TV.

We played the game for a couple of hours. I always lost video games and that night was no exception. I hate losing, though, especially to him. It irks me.

Finally, I blurted out, "So-o-o-o-o.....what just happened?"

He feigned ignorance.

Jerk. Mr. Confrontational decided to let Miss Avoidance bring up the somewhat delicate subject. Why didn't I see that would set precendence?

We reasoned things.

I said no. No, I don't want a boyfriend. He asked if we could still hold hands, if I would rest my head against his shoulder while watching a movie. His rationale? Lots of his girl friends did that. He cited a shared friend of ours who would lay her head on his shoulder and he insisted there was nothing between them. He asked if he could put his arm around me. I said I needed to go home, that I wouldn't sleep on his couch as he suggested. I told him I needed to think things through.

The truth is, I did not want anything to happen. I didn't mean for anything to happen, I was just playing with a lighter. I understand why little kids play with matches and fire. The flicker of the flame intrigues because it is forbidden, because it's dangerous, because it promises....something. I didn't know what that "something" was until it was too late and I no longer wanted anything. That's why the little kid watches his house burn down, sobbing that his prized possessions are feeding the ravenous fire, consuming all he knew.

I drove home, stopping at the Donut Store. Lame name for a store, I thought. But at least it says exactly what it is. My hair was tousled, my sleepy eyes and pale face were probably like many the clerk had seen in his years of working the "walk of shame" shift on campus. I wanted to say, "no, I'm not doing what you think." Which was true. I wasn't. I didn't say anything; to say something would admit a guilt that I didn't know why I felt, so I groggily found my change to pay for the sugar glazed donut and drove home, wide awake and coherent.

The next morning I called him. I invited him to a cafe. Best place to talk, I said. Public, neutral. No, not really neutral, my territory, my familiar relating ground. I rehearsed what I was going to say.

I wish I had known what questions he was going to ask. I didn't rehearse those answers.

We talked. I told him why we couldn't be, why we wouldn't work. I was adament...until he asked me if I liked what went on the night before. I couldn't lie. Of course I liked the feeling it gave, who wouldn't? That's when I realized that it would all be gone. After nearly 20 years without even knowing about the intensity of those feelings, I didn't want to give it up. Not yet. Besides, shouldn't I know this already? Shouldn't I have experienced this by now?

Foolishly, I said, "of course, as friends we can hold hands and stuff."

Why didn't I say no. Stop here. Stop before it intoxicates me and I become addicted to feeling wanted.