I'm pretty afraid of heart-to-heart chats. There's not a lot of reason behind it, besides my middle-school-rooted beliefs that telling someone you like them is just about the worst thing you can do. Best to make sure no one at all gets any hint of your romantic interest. Just keep the conversation going, and if it ever gets too awkward or personal, do a fucking British accent ASAP, OK, motherfucker?
So tonight there was one looming, unavoidable. Now, you don't have to tell me about avoiding heart-to-heart chats. I've gone weeks, months, avoiding heart-to-heart chats. I've let fertile, sprouting seeds of relationships wither in the hot sun of platonic friendship rather than water them with the heart-to-heart talk that might nourish them. I've spent hours muttering half-slurred Spanish phrases (more on Espa�ol later) in drunken hazes, after attempting the "liquid courage" route to unburdening my soul. But mostly, I do nothing in these situations, and eventually they go away.
Tonight was about the best-case scenario for these sorts of things, considering. I didn't start to feel embarrassed or self-conscious until fifteen minutes after it was over. There was no crying. English was the only language spoken, except a few delightful Latin phrases and a very moving passage from Baudelaire, recited in the original French. After agonizing about it for weeks, none of the bad things I imagined actually came true, except for the one major bad thing, which didn't really happen so much as get revealed. Which didn't so much get revealed as it did get tacitly acknowledged. Which didn't really surprise anyone anyway.
Still, I still feel that the Worst-Case Scenario was not wholly unreasonable.
Unnamed Girl: Hey, Sean. Can we talk?
Sean: (blinking quickly) Sure.
Unnamed Girl: Look, I know you like me, sucka. But, it's not going to happen. I like being your friend, and I think you're really funny, but... we both know you're too fat to ride the Sweet-Lovin' Express. (makes choo-choo sounds, mimes train wheels turning)
Sean: (blinking faster, breathing in large heaving gulps) Yes. What you say is yes has some thing true is ok.
Unnamed Girl: So, we're not gonna have sex. Unless I'm really drunk, and I mistake you for one of your roommates. No offense or nothing, jelly roll.
Sean: (trying in vain to create the illusion of spontaneous onion-chopping, blinking like John McCain in a televised interview) None taken is said i many months scared preserve friendship sorry scared not good with people says ok.
Unnamed Girl: Anyway, I'm still going to come over. And we can still be friends. Just as long as you aren't a fucking baby about the whole thing.
Unnamed Girl: But what did you expect, Sean? You drive a fucking Toyota Corolla. You think I fuck Corolla men? Come on, Sean.
Sean: (sobs continue)
Unnamed Girl: Oh, quit crying, Shamu, or I won't hook you up with any of my slutty Catholic school friends during winter break.
Unnamed Girl: Can we smoke a bowl?
Sean: (tearful nodding)
Unnamed Girl: I'm glad we had this little talk.
Sean: (grasping around on floor for kleenex, dignity): Can I have a hug first?
Unnamed Girl: Maybe next week, love handles. Can we get to smoking already? I've got a date with some middle-aged longshoremen at midnight.