When I said in the comments section of this post, "The guy is an unemployed pot smoker; persistence isn't really his 'thing,'" I may have spoken too soon. As it turns out, once the words "it's over" come into play, persistence is very much his thing. Texts, e-mails, some answered, some not. That delicate balance, walking that fine line between ignoring him altogether and not wanting to piss him off too much, since he does know where I live, after all. Funny, though, that a guy unheard from for four days when he thought we were together would become so very communicative once none of it matters anymore. In his texts and his e-mails you can see a clear progression of the stages of grief, starting with denial ("I still have an extra ticket to that concert if you want, no pressure"), and moving through anger ("This is bullshit, you were interested in me the last time I saw you"), bargaining ("I'm done being pushy; I'm chill now, I swear!"), and sadness ("I'm not saying I go around yelling your name like I'm in Rocky or anything, but sometimes it hits me. And I'm like, oh, Rachel's gone...that sucks. There's times like the other night, friends and I were sitting around the dock drinking wine. It was a nice night with the moon out, people were speaking French, and I just wondered why you weren't there.") He seemed to be having trouble with the final stage of acceptance, and so I decided to help him out a bit. He didn't seem to be getting it, after all. All this nostalgic bullshit. And so I told him basically everything I laid out in this post:
a) the list-making, money-counting, tally-keeping
b) the mother fucking pad thai
c) not my type
e) not even that nice to me
f) accused me (me!) of not being nice to him
And then came the e-mail to end all e-mails. It was the fucking War and Peace of e-mails. Like that Friends episode, you know, where Ross is all, "Eighteen pages, front and back!" For once I am not the Rachel in this situation, is what I'm saying. He out-Racheled me.
The tone of the e-mail wandered schizophrenically, bouncing from remorse to accusations, denial to contrition, from "I'm not going to ask for a second chance" to "but I would take it if you offered."
He fucked up, is what he was trying to say to me, but I wasn't listening, he said.
And he wasn't nice to me? I didn't think he was nice when he did x, y, and z? In fact, he almost sent flowers to me at work one time, is how nice of a guy he is. He thought about it, anyway.
And, apparently I am the one who can't get over the mother fucking pad thai. (ME!) Because he is certainly not the one who brought it up over and over (and over) again.
With that said, he didn't think it had to be this hard. He thought it could be easy, if we tried. It was nice before, and it could be nice again.
And then he hit me with this: "You just get this way about you sometimes, you look so innocent and precious. Tender and soft. It's so fucking beautiful, and I just wanted to see it again."
Sometimes people can say exactly the right thing, but it doesn't make a bit of difference. Sometimes the timing is off. And sometimes it's just too late.