Writing in the A.M.

Walking to the mail box, at 6am, inspired by a Murakami short story and events in recent days. The main theme of the story has no reflection on my life right now, so lest you worry, ELV and I are happy as two peas in a pod.

An Unlikely Proposal - 11/13/2006

I never would have suspected that such enlightenment came from a bowl of spicy ramen. Sure, for a person who looks for the folds in the cosmic vapor that portends the events to be, the configuration of the noodles would have indicated a certainty. How depressing, if you ask me, to think that some rehydrated carbs meant that I had to make this phone call to you. Yes, I did call urgently, but believe me, there is a greater logic working here than simply my food made me do it.

First, if you don’t mind, let me explain my mindset, which means that I need to delve into the events that transpired before my dialing of your number. It was another one of those days where nothing seems to be just right. The alarm didn’t ring on time, though I’m quite good at rolling over into waking without the jarring buzz, but my forgetfulness bothered me. That kind of self-reproach clung to me as I jumped into the shower, bathing in lukewarm water because my roommate took a lengthy shower. He is inconsiderate, but what can I say, we’ve been friends for such a long time.

If you remember, the latch on the front door always had that bent corner on the metal faceplate near the handle. That one time, as we were going to the movies, you caught your pashmina scarf, the one that we got on our trip to India. Well, this morning, that damned corner scratched me on the hand. Its alright, luckily I still carry that little kit in my messenger’s bag, so I put some anti-bacterial ointment on the cut during the subway ride.

Work, as always, put me into an awful mood. I don’t have to go into it, the same old humdrum soul sucking events around the water cooler. One thing, do you remember that guy in accounting, Akima from that one party at McKee’s? Yeah, the one with the spiky hair, well he got a strange promotion today, which really wasn’t progression, more like a sideways shift to another location. Anyway, we were working on a project, but now, he won’t have time to help me with the financial figures. I got a new partner from his department who looks like a promising candidate for insipid worthlessness. I shouldn’t be so harsh, but it’s unlikely he’ll be able to just show up and leap into a project that’s been in the works for six months.

I’m sorry, I know that I’m harping about work, and I’ll digress. Upon arrival at the abode, I decided to make some ramen that I got at the Asian market. Remember the spicy ramen that you liked so much, the ones with the dried fishcakes? Yeah, but without the extra hot sauce that you craved. I’m still amazed that you could handle so much heat, but your palate was too delicate to handle wasabi. Taste buds are a funny thing, aren’t they?

So, there I was, adding all the ingredients into the pot of bubbling water. I turned away from the stove to get a drink. Right you are, my post-work scotch because I still am prematurely old, but one thing has changed, I add a little drambuie, thus giving me a post-work rusty nail. So, I’ve got my drink, and the ramen’s done, so I pour the contents into a bowl and sit in the living room, ready to watch a little television. Well, here we get to the crystal ball moment; I look down at the noodle, ready to dig in with chopsticks in hand, when I notice that they spelled a word. The noodles, yes, they spelled out a name. Right you are, ding ding, she’s correct, the orientation of the plump strings floating in the red broth formed a conspicuous representation of your name.

Well, of course, I look at this with disbelief, so much so that I let out a little chuckle of surprise. Then, the flood of memories, a deluge, and my heart felt heavy. I knew what I had to do. I had to call you and rehash the past.

But wait, I had the doubts, the logical arguments that this might be a horrible idea. There are so many twists that a phone conversation, without the guide of a face-to-face meeting, is a treacherous undertaking, especially given the nature of our current relationship. How would I react if you had called with such an absurd premise, I asked myself. Even more, maybe you wouldn’t answer the phone when my name popped up on the display, much like those days after the fight. Perhaps a letter, one explaining everything that swarm my mind, articulate and thorough, would have been a better choice.

I’m still impulsive, as you can see, or hear, I guess. So, here’s the reason I called, how about we meet up somewhere, for a cup of coffee or something, and just talk. There’s so much to talk about, and I’m quite sure that I’ve learned so much in the time that has passed. I think I’m ready. No, I know that I’m ready. A place of your choice for the intention of a meeting of the minds, with no pressure at all…

So, what do you think?

…

Um, fuck it; the noodles made me do it. Goodbye.