Candlelight and Wine Part 2 ...Snowbound and Helpless

To burn with desire and keep quiet about it
is the greatest punishment we can bring upon ourselves.
― Federico García Lorca

Queen's Park in a sudden October snow

I’ve been leaving my office door ajar for weeks in the hope that Nathalie Abbot will drop in but it hasn’t happened yet.

I know it’s a passive gesture and probably doomed to failure but I’m too shy to approach her and ask her out.

The advantage of my open door policy is I can hear when she leaves for lunch and locks her door to make the trek across Queen’s Park to Hart House.

Today, I follow at a discreet distance almost wishing she’d flounder in the freak October snowstorm or lose her footing so I might rescue her, but of course, she doesn’t.

I watch her graceful figure in her dark, ankle-length hooded coat and follow in her glassy footsteps down a path choked with sleet. We veer across Queen’s Park Circle, and continue on to the Hart House doors.

The dining hall is closed because of the storm and only The Arbor Room Café is open. Nathalie is nowhere in sight.

I go into the café and order soup and sandwich and pick a table where I’m sure she’ll have to spot me and be constrained to sit down and join me.

After what seems an eternity, she comes in and heads to the food counter, but to my dismay, she orders a takeout sandwich and coffee. Within moments she’s back out the door leaving me dining alone at a lopsided Arborite table.

By the time I make it back to the college, the snow is knee-deep and visibility minimal. Nathalie is again sequestered behind the yellow outline of her door.

I sit alone in my office sipping lukewarm coffee I bought at the café and bemoaning my fate. The utter futility of pursuing Nathalie finally dawns on me—the truth finally penetrates.

I realize my fantasy of Nathalie will never come true, mainly because I’m too reserved to take a bold step. Moreover, each passing day the prospect of failure becomes even more terrifying because of the time and emotional investment I’ve made in obsessing over her.

If ever a lover were deluded and destined to failure, it’s me. For the sake of my own sanity, I conclude I can no longer indulge this fantasy.

I gather up my books and papers, dump the lot in my briefcase, put on my winter coat and gloves and head out into the parking lot.

I pass by Nathalie’s darkened door and realize she’s also done the same.

Out in the parking lot, the wind is so strong it catches me by surprise, blinding me and flinging icy grit into my eyes.

I barely make it to my car and manage to crack open the door when I hear the familiar clicking of a starting motor as Nathalie’s motor fails to start.

I put the key in the ignition of my SUV and get the same result. Great, just great!

After a few minutes, Nathalie exits her snowbound car and spots me sitting in my SUV with my usual half-open entry, but this time uselessly cranking a dead battery.

She flounders through the drifts and actually has to shout over the wind, “Is your SUV dead too?”

I’m in no mood for this bathos—this failed pity-patter of people caught in hopeless circumstances. I simply nod, get out and slam the door with disgust.

My pent up frustration at wasting weeks passively hoping Nathalie would notice me has finally driven me over the edge.

I’m not only resentful of her now, I’m actually liable to explode in anger and start yelling at her.

Yep, this is the ultimate outcome of being passive aggressive.

Poor, sad me…

But I should also add, poor, sad her, if she crosses me.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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