- - - - -
"So you like her, right?"
For some reason I was startled to hear her ask me that. My mother and I get along great and talk about nearly everything, but she must have picked up on something I hadn't said. At first I just dismissed her inquiry, thinking - or at least hoping - that she was addressing someone else. Subconsciously I was probably just stalling, trying to buy time. She was preoccupied with the book she was reading. He voice was soft and not fully committed, and her gaze still scanned the pages of what I realized was just a thick mail-order catalog. I guess she sensed my confusion, so she cleared her throat and asked again, her eyes never meeting mine.
"Ben, do you have feelings for this girl?"
She looked up now and we each grinned broadly. We both had trouble talking about things like this. Mom became uncomfortable discussing love and relationships when my father divorced her. We love eachother, but for the last 11 years we almost never say it. We never NEED to say it. For some reason I'm more than OK with that. The only times the phrase is said is when one of us is in tears.
She knew I had heard her and allowed me to formulate an answer before responding.
"It's not like that," I said close to a minute later. "I don't know if I like her or not. I jus tknow that she doesn't like me the way I want her to like me."
" 'The way you want her to like you'... And what way is that?"
"Well, it's one of two ways. I either want her to like me as another guy-friend, or like me like me," I spurted out, not having to give my answer a second thought. "We talk about relationships and shit, which I great because I really nead someone to talk about them with."
My mom winced when hearing this. She knew that she had passed that handicap on to me. She also knew that I meant nothing offensive by my remark. I continued.
"But sometimes I hate being 'that friend'; the one who listens and comforts and critiques. She tells me things that she hasn't told anybody else. Things between us are on a really personal level. We don't bother with small talk, 'cause it's all just bullshit anyway."
I paused for a moment. Mostly because my temper was impairing my thinking, but also because I was running out of steam. Mom was somehow able to understand my feelings through the rambling. She could always summarize things in a way no one else could.
"So you feel like you're somewhere between 'best friend' and 'boyfriend', but with none of the benifits."
"Yes!" I cried out exasperatedly. I leaned forward in the sofa I was sitting in, placed my elbows on my knees and rested my eyes in the palms of my hands. Sure, I had pondered all these thoughts before, but this was the first time I had gotten myself wrapped up in my emotions.
"Well, do something about it?!"
"Like what? What am I supposed to do if I don't even know what I want?" The tone of my mother's voice made it clear that she thought the solution was obvious. She stood up, walked over to me and gave me a quick rap on the crown of my skull with her rolled up magazine.
"You have to find out what you want, right?"
She was right.
"Fine. I guess I'll spend more time with her," I finally said, giving in to her pursuasiveness. "I'll do my best to fine out what she wants."
"You're not doing this for her! You need to clear things up for yourself," she scolded.
I had nothing to reply with. There were to many possible scenarios being enacted in my head; some good, others bad. I was just worrying and being overanalytic.
"Don't think about it too much, kiddo," my mother added. I'm sure she's psychic.
For some reason I was startled to hear her ask me that. My mother and I get along great and talk about nearly everything, but she must have picked up on something I hadn't said. At first I just dismissed her inquiry, thinking - or at least hoping - that she was addressing someone else. Subconsciously I was probably just stalling, trying to buy time. She was preoccupied with the book she was reading. He voice was soft and not fully committed, and her gaze still scanned the pages of what I realized was just a thick mail-order catalog. I guess she sensed my confusion, so she cleared her throat and asked again, her eyes never meeting mine.
"Ben, do you have feelings for this girl?"
She looked up now and we each grinned broadly. We both had trouble talking about things like this. Mom became uncomfortable discussing love and relationships when my father divorced her. We love eachother, but for the last 11 years we almost never say it. We never NEED to say it. For some reason I'm more than OK with that. The only times the phrase is said is when one of us is in tears.
She knew I had heard her and allowed me to formulate an answer before responding.
"It's not like that," I said close to a minute later. "I don't know if I like her or not. I jus tknow that she doesn't like me the way I want her to like me."
" 'The way you want her to like you'... And what way is that?"
"Well, it's one of two ways. I either want her to like me as another guy-friend, or like me like me," I spurted out, not having to give my answer a second thought. "We talk about relationships and shit, which I great because I really nead someone to talk about them with."
My mom winced when hearing this. She knew that she had passed that handicap on to me. She also knew that I meant nothing offensive by my remark. I continued.
"But sometimes I hate being 'that friend'; the one who listens and comforts and critiques. She tells me things that she hasn't told anybody else. Things between us are on a really personal level. We don't bother with small talk, 'cause it's all just bullshit anyway."
I paused for a moment. Mostly because my temper was impairing my thinking, but also because I was running out of steam. Mom was somehow able to understand my feelings through the rambling. She could always summarize things in a way no one else could.
"So you feel like you're somewhere between 'best friend' and 'boyfriend', but with none of the benifits."
"Yes!" I cried out exasperatedly. I leaned forward in the sofa I was sitting in, placed my elbows on my knees and rested my eyes in the palms of my hands. Sure, I had pondered all these thoughts before, but this was the first time I had gotten myself wrapped up in my emotions.
"Well, do something about it?!"
"Like what? What am I supposed to do if I don't even know what I want?" The tone of my mother's voice made it clear that she thought the solution was obvious. She stood up, walked over to me and gave me a quick rap on the crown of my skull with her rolled up magazine.
"You have to find out what you want, right?"
She was right.
"Fine. I guess I'll spend more time with her," I finally said, giving in to her pursuasiveness. "I'll do my best to fine out what she wants."
"You're not doing this for her! You need to clear things up for yourself," she scolded.
I had nothing to reply with. There were to many possible scenarios being enacted in my head; some good, others bad. I was just worrying and being overanalytic.
"Don't think about it too much, kiddo," my mother added. I'm sure she's psychic.
- - - - -
