You don’t always get to pick your muses

I once knew an ex-sex worker that broke my heart.  It wasn’t… It’s not like that.  She was only a friend.  I should have been smarter.  More aware.  More sensitive to her mindset.  The first time I had coffee with her she stated in no uncertain terms “I’m not a huggie bitch so don’t expect anything from me”.  After that we agreed on a fist bump as our go to greeting/good bye gesture.

She had read everything I’ve ever written by that point.  I’ve never met someone who knew my stories so well that they could quote things back to me. And when I say that we spent almost every day together for the better part of several months I mean that. She asked me once how long we'd known each other. I told her 2 weeks. She said it felt longer, and I couldn't have agreed more.

There was a dichotomy to her. She spent many of her formative years in Italy. Which while it meant she adamantly did not want to be touched at all, her sense of personal space was more European than American. In short, as someone who is admittivity a hugger, I had to respect that I couldn't touch her. But she talked with her hands enough, and would frequently hit, poke, push, and generally loom over me to make a point. So I'd purposely angle myself to allow her to do it. Because it was the only physical interaction I was able to have with this person I cared about.

I admittedly pushed it with her a few times, and we got on each other's nerves occasionally, but even when she told me about how her grandmother had recently past. I didn't hug her. Because by then I knew better.

We'd start a day over coffee and end it with both of us obnoxiously tipsy, belting out over piped in music at a dive bar somewhere late at night.  We probably could have gotten kicked out of a movie theater one time we were so raucous together.  She'd talk about things we were going to do in the future.  But in the back of my mind I already had the haunting feeling that this friendship unfortunately had an expiration date.  And whether that was just fate, or me manifesting it into existence via my own personal fuck ups it doesn't matter because the outcome would still be the same.

[Insert something more clever to say here later]

We were in a bar during the dead of winter.  When I knew the words "How do you feel about me?" were a mistake as soon as they came out of my mouth.

[SCENE MISSING]

"GOD DAMNIT KEITH YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO SUPPORT MY GOALS AND DREAMS!"  She screams jumping off the bar stool and slamming a hand on the seat for punctuation.

Well that was public.

I like to think that many of my life's problems might have been avoided if I had stopped one drink earlier.

That said. I will say my feelings are valid. And I really wish things could have gone differently.

You could call it an overreaction. And she no longer returns my texts, but I knew she had difficulty maintaining relationships with men regardless that she was a difficult person for me not to fall for.

She listened to me when I was going through some rather depressing times. And I lost a friend due to my own insensitivity.  I still get a sinking feeling in my chest every time I think of her. My memory of her will eventually fade. But not today.

When she became a ghost I knew it was time to get on anti-depressants, join the gym, and get a better handle on my drinking. The resulting clarity is what has inspired and produced most of this writing. I thought writing about it would be therapeutic. I assure you it's not.

Like I said, you don't always get to pick your muses.