Let’s Be Friends

January 23, 2005

She expressed ambivalent feelings in several confusing e-mails and one or two brief over-coffee conversations until I decided my best and only option was not to engage. That is, I didn't go out of my way to call her or try to make plans to see her. I did nothing to pursue her. The only thing I did was pick up the phone whenever she called. Which, in terms of “playing the game,” was a mistake, of course. But I'd long since given up on such nonsense. My life had enough drama in it without trying to create any more. I was too tired to be calculating.

"You're so understanding and accommodating," she finally said. "I'm afraid of hurting you. I know what you've been through, and I don't want to cause you any more pain."

Hit me with your best shot. At that point, I seriously doubted anyone was capable of hurting me and felt the melodrama was unnecessary, but I got the picture. So when she added, "I'd like to be your friend," instead of calling bullshit, I graciously disappeared. Because, even though I needed friends, I knew better. Or so I thought.

Several months later, I ran into her and we had a brief chat in the middle of the street. She looked as pretty as ever, but I wasn't overcome with desire or regret. I didn't pine for her, or wonder: "What happened between us?" Or think: "If only, if only, if only." But I did wonder: when someone says, "let's be friends," do they ever mean it? I mean, really mean it? I decided to find out.

After our random encounter, I emailed her and said it had been nice to see her, adding a very non-committal, "Maybe we'll run into each other again sometime." She e-mailed back the next day, agreeing it had been nice running into me, and asked how things were and what I'd been up to. All very superficial, but warm and friendly nonetheless. I e-mailed her again a few weeks later with a casual, friendly update. I told her I was heading to Amsterdam, and when I returned, we could catch up over a drink or coffee. No big deal; just an idea.

While in Amsterdam. I bought several postcards and sent them to assorted friends. Noticing that I still had this girl's address in my book, I impulsively scribbled one off to her as well. Why not? I didn't write anything creepy — just more or less what I wrote to everyone else. Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here.

I stayed in Amsterdam longer than I'd planned, but when I returned to New York, I e-mailed the girl like I said I would.

"Jamie," came her reply. "What do you want from me? I received your email and postcard. Are you confused about what happened between us?" et cetera, et cetera.

Huh?

The dense paragraph left me feeling like a total chump. An idiot. Fuck. When people say, "let's be friends," they don't mean it. I knew that! I wrote a brief reply: I wasn't looking for anything other than friendship. It was naive of me to think that it might be possible. I'm sorry. Take care, Jamie. I figured that would be the end of it, but she actually wrote back and apologized for being so defensive. She asked a few friendly questions. How's work? How was your trip? Only this time I didn't fall for it.

Progress.