the blind side of love | chaennie

twenty-nine

Dear Rosie, Jennie typed, as her plane floated thousands of miles in the air. Somewhere nearby Kai and Jisoo sat, talking quietly amongst themselves in that private way that made Jennie feel left out. But she didn't really mind. Not at that moment. She was content to just sit, and type, and not think for once; to ignore her worries and fears and guilt, and simply be.

The plane shook suddenly, and Jennie thought of Irene and her fear of flying. She smiled briefly and looked outside. The clouds stretched out endlessly against a light blue sky. The plane shook again and the captain's voice filled the air, apologetic but confident that everything was fine.

The one flight attendant on duty came to Jennie's side and offered to refill her drink. Jennie nodded and thanked her. With nothing else to distract her, she returned to the email she'd begun.

So, you wanted to hear about my date. I think it went fine. The play we saw was wonderful. Dinner was unconventional but interesting. And then in the car she admitted that I made her nervous because she didn't know what I was thinking, and I admitted that she made me nervous because I'm a complete novice in the ways of love and dating and women and that I wasn't sure if I wanted it to be a date because ... just because. But she just kind of smiled and said to let her know when I'd made up my mind one way or the other.

The evening ended with a half-wave type of thing and no plans for an encore.

But yesterday I saw her and I think I implied that the other night was a date – and then I kind of left her standing there, looking surprised and confused.

She invited me to a party and I said no. She invited me skiing with her and her friends for Christmas and I said no.

I'm sure I must be the queen of mixed signals.

What about you? How are you? How's Lisa? How's the art? Are the holidays stressing you out? Are you one of those people that does all of the shopping back in September or do you wait until the last minute (like me)? Do you celebrate Christmas or something else? I never thought to ask.

I'm cooking dinner for my friends on Christmas Eve. My family's in Paris until January so Christmas Day should be a pretty solo affair. I haven't even bought a Christmas tree yet.

Anyway, I've been meaning to ask: what's your favorite book? Assuming you like to read and that you have a favorite book. I have too many to list but the first that comes to mind is The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. Have you read it? Actually, anything of hers is wonderful.

Hm. And now I think I'm out of things to randomly ask you. Actually, here's one more: do you like hotdogs?

Your friend,
J.

-

Roseanne yawned into her sleeve as she waited for the laptop to boot up. She glanced around the coffee shop and squinted across the room at the menu pinned to the wall, written in faux colored chalk and perfectly aligned lettering. She couldn't see a thing.

Lisa appeared suddenly behind the counter, her red hair pinned back into a high pony tail which swayed from side to side as she walked over. "Wasn't expecting you so early," she said by way of greeting.

Roseanne nodded absently. She wasn't quite sure what she was doing there at ten o'clock in the morning when she knew perfectly well that Lisa didn't get off until four-thirty. But the alarm had unexpectedly gone off at eight and Roseanne had been unable to get back to sleep because the television next door had been cranked to the highest volume setting and she'd been forced to listen to the high-pitched squealing of cartoons until even the pillow over her head couldn't muffle out the sound. Then the Internet connection had crashed, and the cable had gone out, and the apartment had practically pushed her out the door with the threat of eternal boredom should she remain. But none of this seemed important right then. "What's your strongest coffee?"