On Wednesday I wrote and posted a letter to E. I believe I have reached an all time low in terms of desperation - posting a letter to a man who lives a ten minute walk from me because I have given up on all other forms of communication with him. That and he has never once, as far as I am aware, telephoned me, despite his assurance last time we shagged that he "would be in touch."
Letter posted and I awaited a response. By Saturday, not a peep. I was in "T mood number 137", i.e. insanely hyper hangover mood, and decided to call his house because it was a nice day and I was going to the park. E answered, sounding a bit under the weather, but my invite to the park was turned down, in his roundabout and polite English sort of way ("well, I'm going to watch Le Tour de France, but if I don't, I'll come by" - fucking hell you will, I won't hold my breath). I then cheerily asked whether he received my letter. He said he did and he had intended to respond - he had even gone so far as to start to write back but he "got bogged down in prose". Is this guy weird or what?! (Rhetorical question - we know the answer to that one.)
At this point in the telephone conversation I was handed over to his flatmate, who was also unable to come to the park, but we had a bit of a natter anyway. End of conversation.
So, I thoughtfully came to the conclusion that no matter what I might think otherwise, E and I are just friends who sometimes fuck when we see each other, which isn't all that often anyway. And bearing this in mind, I need to get over it.
I still wonder though, will I see him at the pub quiz at our local tonight?
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