#11: Together Seven Years Apart

Memoir - Week 11

When the phone rang back and Erin’s voice sounded in my ear, I was so relieved and excited.

“Hi, I got your message”.

We chatted. I asked if she’d like to meet for coffee. Erin was happy to meet me where I’d suggested, at Essen – an intimate little café in the city – Tuesday evening. I hung up my chunky landline. I could still hear Erin’s sweet, eager voice ringing in my ear.

Sketchy Al as I called him (he just looked sketchy to me), Essen’s owner, wasn’t there that night. So we sat down and waited for one of the usual university students he hired to eventually fleet on over and take our order. Normally I would engage in a bit of banter with Sketchy Al upon entry, before he’d ask if I wanted my regular coffee.

Erin and I did not get on like a house on fire. No. We got on like a whole row of houses up in flames. The fire burnt for a good two or so hours, relaxed conversation its abundant fuel. I told Erin some boring story about how Russian Caravan tea had traditionally been taken with the addition of strawberry jam mixed in for sweetness. I shouldn’t have bothered but the words had irrevocably sprung forward, and it would have appeared even lamer of me to have stopped myself mid-way. I was drinking Russian Caravan tea at the time and, with the jam, so at least I had the aid of distracting props. Some nights later Erin told me that she had actually found the little story quite endearing. She was putting me at ease so early in our relationship. Either that or I had a remarkable talent for utilizing props.

#10: Together Seven Years Apart

Memoir - Week 10

My car gently rolled up under a parking lot lamppost at Erin’s university residences. We were nestled in a fog and the lamppost sent out a warm glow. I felt like I was in a dream.

Below the waistline it was rock hard and throbbing, cramped and bursting under blue denim. The car windows were almost completely fogged over from our breathing together, our lips and tongues busy. As difficult as it was for me, no matter where my blood rushed to in concentration, I knew tonight was not that sort of night.

After quite some time in my car and a final goodbye, I and a belly full of butterflies and good feelings floated along the empty road home and into bed. When I awoke my stomach was still a butterfly house.

Should I call her? Is she interested in seeing me again? I’m pretty sure she’d be happy to get a call from me…

Damn answering machines...Don’t hang up! Leave a message…Oh, God, you sounded awkward – typical of you. Hope she calls back. Or I can try again…Yeah.

Sunday, 18 May, 2003. I don’t remember the time of day. I picked up my chunky landline and pressed all the digits of her phone number that I’d made sure to get on the Friday night. I left a message. After leaving a message I busied myself around the apartment, hoping that either Erin would return my call or that I would eventually catch her later during the day. Calling the very next day after we met seemed a little overly eager. Sunday was a safer bet I decided.

#9: Together Seven Years Apart

Memoir - Week 9

I wasn’t sure where we’d find café-quality coffee well past midnight in ‘downtown’ or anywhere-else Canberra. But it really didn’t matter. Although, I did feel a certain amount of pressure to locate something, just to show Erin I had some idea of what was going on around the joint – that she wasn’t in the car holding hands with a loser of some sort.

We left the parking lot and headed for the trendy suburb of Manuka. No coffee located. All shut.

Tsst…bloody Canberra.

Normally such a scenario would’ve bothered me, thinking it was my fault. And I would probably have dredged up some similar memory causing me greater anxiety in the moment. Like when I took a girlfriend, Lara, to dinner for the first time. In fact, it was our first date. There was a mix up with the reservation. Although it was the restaurant’s fault, I took it on as mine and felt insecure about the whole evening.

“No, don’t you understand! What did I just say? You’re stupid. Look. First you multiply seven by…”

His father would be imposing, sitting cross-legged, speaking in explosions and frowning in his big brown armchair at the back of the living room. Julian was kneeling in front of his towering father, feeling useless, scared and sobbing, trying to understand his father’s explanations of the math homework. It all just became a blur in the end. All he could think of was his father’s angry hand gripping the pen. And the frightening voice. That angry hand and the frightening voice.

But, being with Erin I felt so much more at ease. My head was clearer and I confidently decided on an alternative to coffee – to instead swing by a bakery known for staying open late. Thinking of this alternative may seem only logical or even pathetic. Yet, it probably represents the first interaction of its kind between Erin and me – I was displaying more confidence than in years before, whereas, Erin was innocent to such change in me for now.