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Doorknob | Jan 19 2002

There’s this moment in the car, before I get out of the car, where we have no choice but to say good night in the car because I can’t invite her in—I don’t live here, and even if I did, I’m not so sure I would, probably I wouldn’t, but anyway I don’t so I can’t, nor can she invite me to her place, it’s too late for that, the time for that was back in the restaurant or soon after the restaurant, only for whatever reason she chose not to do it, assuming she considered it, which doesn’t seem likely, the vibe between us is not a let’s-keep-this-thing-going vibe but rather a let’s-just-wrap-this-thing-up-shall-we? vibe. I mean that’s how I feel, I feel awkward and frustrated because while I want to break through, I don’t think I should break through, because I’m not so sure I’d be happy to have broken through once having done so and in fact I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t, so it seems stupid and selfish to even try. She turns and says something to the effect of how grateful she is for all my help, so I say how I just hope it proves useful to her and helps her land a job she loves, and then we both remark how nice the other is and how enjoyable the whole thing was, especially to get to know each other some, which we agree was the nicest part. I don’t dare lean over to kiss her cheek, a permissible action under the circumstances, nor do I offer my hand for her to shake; instead I just sort of wave good-bye as I leave the car, rotating my hand back and forth in much the same way one would jiggle the doorknob of a locked door, only here I hold my hand mostly open, so that it’s actually more like the way one might fondle a breast of a certain size, rubbing the nipple with the sweaty part of one’s palm, although in the case of a breast the motion would naturally be slower, a breast requiring a slower, more sensuous motion than a doorknob.