X asked this morning if we could meet tonight at cafe "to discuss a few things." I agreed; what the hell.
Last time she asked that was in Sept (?). At that time, I agreed and said, "well could you at least give me the topic, the reason for this meeting?" She replied, "You know, Gardener, at the last two mediator sessions you started off asking me questions unrelated to mediation. I didn't even know you were going to ask questions, let alone what their topics were going to be. So, no, I'd rather not." That seemed fair enough at the time, so I let it go.
I let it go this time, too. Didn't even ask. Didn't care.
I forget the topic of that last public meeting other than it included her giving me a check for something and as we were leaving, I broached an R talk and she went absolutely, uncharacteristically apoplectic in public in the parking lot and I just left.
So much ambivalence today since that call. Not obsessing (I don't think so, anyway), just wondering from time to time. What could be up? The few times she refused phone or email in favor of a face-to-face in a public place, it usually wasn't good. On the other hand why the hell should I care? And what the hell is there to care about at this point? What "not good" could there be left? I'm fresh out of "not good." Used it all up.
Ambivalence also because the actual, formal D is still so new. That, and the fact I will be sitting down to discuss God-knows-what with one of four people (or all four; who knows?): the good, decent person and partner that I had a genuine love affair with for some 16 years. The alien replacement who selfishly caused so much unnecessary pain, anguish and destruction to our blended family in the last 16 months. The hurting girl who shattered our friendship in so many ways and accused me of vile, fantastical things. And the stranger that I do not know at all.
So, some curiosity, a little compassion and the ever-growing apathy is what I literally "bring to the table" tonight. And, yes, some trepidation (just a habit I've picked because after the big Bomb 16 months ago, she just kept on lobbing one hand grenade after another).
"Trepidation." Nice word. Why on earth should I even feel one iota of dread at this point? "We" are no more. What she says or thinks matters not at all. Given everything she's done, she should dread seeing me.
Ah, the newness of it all.
Now to busy myself: spit'n polish the house for tomorrow's showing, Sit down to rob Peter to pay... um, I mean "pay bills." Then go hit the gym for an hour or two before facing she of the cold, dead eyes and disdainful look.
Will report back tonight - probably on something fairly inane or inconsequential.
Gardener
"My soul, be satisfied with flowers, With fruit, with weeds even; but gather them In the one garden you may call your own." Cyrano deBergerac
