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revisiting
May. 7th, 2002 04:09 pmI spent the summer of '95 renting out a room in a gorgeous, ancient farmhouse out in South Natick. It was owned by an old Yankee family of the respectable, old money variety. The father was a retired banker, working on his much-delayed novel. The mom was a retired lawyer, now philanthropist. The kids were married, or off in college, and their vacant rooms were rented out to students like me. It was $150/month, which wasn't bad, and I took the odd-sized bed and the age-warped floors as a bonus. Besides, I always wanted to live in a place where you could peek through keyholes. Then, in the middle of June, Mrs. Thompson came up to my room to tell me that she and her husband were going to Europe for a month or so and I was welcome to use the rest of the house while they were away. "Oh," she said as she turned to leave, "also our niece, Kathleen, will be taking the other room. She's a nice girl. I'm sure you'll get along."
Kathleen was an English major, recently graduated from Columbia and shifting over to a job teaching at a local elementary school. She smoked Camel lights and wore a knit beret during all but the hottest evenings. The conversations started around dinner, after we both got home from our respective jobs and tried to manuever around each other in this massive kitchen. It started off with pasta cooking tips and Bread and Circus recommendations, but soon graduated to rambling discussions about our jobs, and later on lives. We spent whole evenings talking about growing up, swapping stories about shopping at Generation Records and comparing college life between provincial Wellesley and cosmopolitan New York. These talks rambled between the library, where she shoved a copy of Lolita in my hand and made me promise to finish it before month's end, and the dining room, where I served her my first take at a chicken adobo.
What happened next is so predictable it's almost a cliche.
Somehow, we rambled over from trading tales of classroom escapades to the people we dated. She was coming off a two year relationship with a guy that ultimately wouldn't move with her to Massachusetts, and I was still picking up the pieces from a three month relationship that ended in the spring. I wasn't looking for anything, just good company, but she kept on talking about how hard it was to meet people once you got out of school, how rare connections seemed to be, and how much she came to enjoy the talks we had every night.
Then, one evening, she said, "so, there's this guy that I talk to at work that might be interested, but I don't know if he is or not. Should I ask him out? Or would that be too aggressive?"
"It depends on the guy. Some guys like to be chased, some guys feel intimidated by it."
"and what kind of guy are you?"
"Usually, I don't mind being chased, it makes it easier ... but right now, I wouldn't want that."
"So, if a girl came up to you right now, and she fit everything that you might want from someone, and she asked you, 'hey, do you want to get dinner somewhere?' You'd say ...?"
"I'd say that I'm flattered, but I don't want the pressure of thinking that this might be something that it's not. I just don't want that right now, but maybe later on, when I'm in a better mindset."
"Ah."
"Though this guy you're talking about might be different."
"No, he seems to be in that mindset too."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, pretty sure."
The conversation fizzled after that, and she went up to her room to work on lesson plans, while I sat in the kitchen and tried to finish Lolita. I never called her on what she said, never asked for more information on this guy that she might be interested in, and she never volunteered it. Fall came and I moved out of the farmhouse and back into the dorms.
I thought of Kathleen from time to time while in the dorms as I started to miss the idea of coming home and spending an evening doing nothing more than just talking. I missed those moments, but never so much that I put any effort into contacting that family and asking for her contact information. And over time, I started hanging out with other friends who didn't mind talking their way through long rambling walks along the Charles River.
Still, I couldn't help but wonder about her, as I rode through Natick last Sunday, and found myself one turn away from riding past that old farmhouse. I steered my bike up the hill and paused by the driveway, looking up at the Volvo parked outside, trying to decide if I should say hi or not.
Kathleen was an English major, recently graduated from Columbia and shifting over to a job teaching at a local elementary school. She smoked Camel lights and wore a knit beret during all but the hottest evenings. The conversations started around dinner, after we both got home from our respective jobs and tried to manuever around each other in this massive kitchen. It started off with pasta cooking tips and Bread and Circus recommendations, but soon graduated to rambling discussions about our jobs, and later on lives. We spent whole evenings talking about growing up, swapping stories about shopping at Generation Records and comparing college life between provincial Wellesley and cosmopolitan New York. These talks rambled between the library, where she shoved a copy of Lolita in my hand and made me promise to finish it before month's end, and the dining room, where I served her my first take at a chicken adobo.
What happened next is so predictable it's almost a cliche.
Somehow, we rambled over from trading tales of classroom escapades to the people we dated. She was coming off a two year relationship with a guy that ultimately wouldn't move with her to Massachusetts, and I was still picking up the pieces from a three month relationship that ended in the spring. I wasn't looking for anything, just good company, but she kept on talking about how hard it was to meet people once you got out of school, how rare connections seemed to be, and how much she came to enjoy the talks we had every night.
Then, one evening, she said, "so, there's this guy that I talk to at work that might be interested, but I don't know if he is or not. Should I ask him out? Or would that be too aggressive?"
"It depends on the guy. Some guys like to be chased, some guys feel intimidated by it."
"and what kind of guy are you?"
"Usually, I don't mind being chased, it makes it easier ... but right now, I wouldn't want that."
"So, if a girl came up to you right now, and she fit everything that you might want from someone, and she asked you, 'hey, do you want to get dinner somewhere?' You'd say ...?"
"I'd say that I'm flattered, but I don't want the pressure of thinking that this might be something that it's not. I just don't want that right now, but maybe later on, when I'm in a better mindset."
"Ah."
"Though this guy you're talking about might be different."
"No, he seems to be in that mindset too."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, pretty sure."
The conversation fizzled after that, and she went up to her room to work on lesson plans, while I sat in the kitchen and tried to finish Lolita. I never called her on what she said, never asked for more information on this guy that she might be interested in, and she never volunteered it. Fall came and I moved out of the farmhouse and back into the dorms.
I thought of Kathleen from time to time while in the dorms as I started to miss the idea of coming home and spending an evening doing nothing more than just talking. I missed those moments, but never so much that I put any effort into contacting that family and asking for her contact information. And over time, I started hanging out with other friends who didn't mind talking their way through long rambling walks along the Charles River.
Still, I couldn't help but wonder about her, as I rode through Natick last Sunday, and found myself one turn away from riding past that old farmhouse. I steered my bike up the hill and paused by the driveway, looking up at the Volvo parked outside, trying to decide if I should say hi or not.
