Justin called this afternoon to ask me to dinner. I haven’t seen much of him lately. He’s a newlywed, and they’ve been moving in together. It was good to see Justin, as always. And it took a bit of the sting out of having to go pick up my prescriptions today after work.
We went out for sushi at one of my favorite places to eat and catch up. I told him all about the weekend at SELF, and he told me what’s been going on with him. After we finished eating, he mentioned that we were right around the corner from the condo he is now sharing with Chad. We dropped by to check it out.
It’s really, really tasteful and beautiful; and filled with a plethora of lovely expensive things. The furniture is exquisite, if a bit crowded for my taste. But it didn’t strike me as particularly homey. There wasn’t a single thing out of place. The kitchen counters were spotless, crumb-less; the apparently untouched dish towel perfectly folded and lying at a magazine-layout-casually-attractive-yet-placed angle over the edge of the sink. I saw no evidence of food. I’m sure it was there, but it would have seemed strangely out of place. There wasn’t a single note or scrap under the carefully placed magnets on the fridge. The cushions were fluffed. The tassels were combed. The beautiful table and chairs in the dining room didn’t look as if they’d ever been used. Everything seemed (and many things actually were) pressed behind glass. There was a strange juxtaposition between feeling as if you were in a museum, and at the same time the atmosphere - the very objects in it - felt poised, expectant. It was as if you were waiting for the scene to start, but at the same time as if you were in a kind of shrine to a Home where nothing should be disturbed. I was very conscious of where my elbows were at all times. It left me with a distinctly odd impression that I can’t quite put my finger on. It felt rather like sneaking around in someone else’s home when they weren’t there. When we left I felt vaguely relieved for no good reason.
We went back to my place for a bit of rum raisin ice cream, and to finish up the conversation, but Justin had to run. By that point in the evening it felt almost as if he had one eye on his watch; the call of Spousal Duty and all that. It was good to see him, and I was glad he came, but I felt vaguely unhappy after he left. Partially, I suppose, due to the comparison between that perfect place and the relative squalor of my own afterwards; and perhaps there was a bit of the green-eyed monster at work. A part of me has always envied people who can just jump off the cliff – throw themselves into the intimacy of co-habitation with wild and reckless abandon.
This passage from Huckleberry Finn was vaguely trying to surface in the back of my mind. I looked it up later:
Huck Finn's wealth and the fact that he was now under the Widow Douglas'Of course, it's been a strange week, and I'm in an odd state of mind. And I am the last person anyone should choose as a relationship guru, goodness knows, with my track record. God bless them, and I sincerely hope that they enjoy every happiness.
protection introduced him into society--no, dragged him into it, hurled him into
it--and his sufferings were almost more than he could bear. The widow's servants
kept him clean and neat, combed and brushed, and they bedded him nightly in
unsympathetic sheets that had not one little spot or stain which he could press
to his heart and know for a friend. He had to eat with a knife and fork; he had
to use napkin, cup, and plate; he had to learn his book, he had to go to church;
he had to talk so properly that speech was become insipid in his mouth;
whithersoever he turned, the bars and shackles of civilization shut him in and
bound him hand and foot.
By chance I wandered over to the computer tonight before bed. Lady Beth had sent me some lovely emails that made me feel much better before I turned in.
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