The Cheese Stands Alone.

I’m sitting in Bobst, around 6pm on a rainy Monday afternoon, reading about Keith Harring and waiting for a friend. I’ve lucked out, landing myself a spot in one of those big blueish grey armchairs with a bonus round end table for a footrest.

I’ve barely noticed the girl sitting next to me, not until her seat is approached from behind and a big pair of hands clamps down upon her shoulders. It’s her boyfriend.

He asks how she is, about her exam and whether she’d been napping or reading before he arrived. In a moment, and quite surprisingly, I felt myself a little drained, deflated by their affection and my solitary spot beside it. Most times I think I am not the girlfriend type, particularly because, thus far, those who wanted to match me were not the men I hoped would try.

So maybe the right fit just hasn’t come along yet, or maybe he never will. Maybe it’s all just as much of an illusion as I’ve worked to convince myself it is. I’ve never played pessimistic for long in my life, but I’m feeling it now. Or just hopeless maybe.

My old flames have now all settled comfortably into facebook photographs of them with their significant other, while I, the cheese, still stand alone, with a foot on each side of the great optimism/pessimism divide.