Narrow Lane

 "You've wasted your summer," she said—not for the first time—as if the end of summer marked some invisible boundary of importance.

Sam drew out another cigarette and lit it. She wasn’t ready to leave. The shadows were deepening around us. It had been bright when we entered the restaurant, but now no light leaked through the blinds, proving her point: summer was ending.

I tried to form a reply. I sputtered partial phrases, none of which made much sense.

"Don't get defensive," she continued. "You need to find someone more mature. Someone who can offer you something mentally."

 

It sounded horribly boring to me. Like watching paint dry—acrylic paint, not oil-based, no fumes to enjoy. I wasn’t looking for a partner to challenge me intellectually. I don’t put much thought into things—except people—and you don’t need a PhD to observe people.

I wanted the fumes.

"You deserve better," is what she was really saying. I’ve heard that before. More often than not, it’s less about me and more about them. My instinctive response is always the same: I don’t want better—I want you. More accurately, I want what I see in you. They don’t see it in themselves, or they don’t share the same vision.

Why is what I seem to deserve and what I want so far apart?

I’ve already reviewed my childhood trauma. I don’t want to remarry, and I’m not looking for someone to grow old with—just the thought turns my stomach. I’d rather be alone than settle for someone who doesn’t interest me. I’ve created my own narrow lane.

 

Firefly sits across the couch from me, eating a bowl of ice cream.
“After meeting you, I cannot see you being with someone your own age. You’re young at heart. Most people your age are boring. They’ve given up,” she says.

Sometimes I think I have too—just not in the same way.