D. called a few nights ago to catch up. He says he misses me. I asked him to define what, exactly, he misses.
"Aren't I the lawyer?" he aked.
"But I'm the girl," I responded.
He says he misses arguing with me about culinary issues. He misses my laugh. He misses the comfort of sitting on my couch, just talking. He misses going places with me and showing me off as his date. He misses being around me. He misses being my friend.
"You know, most of those things are more than just aspects of our friendship."
"I realize that."
"This isn't going to work. You can't call me anymore."
"I understand your point of view and validate your opinion, but I disagree. This can work."
"No, it can't. You are incapable of being just friends. Each time you laugh at my jokes, I won't know if it was as a friend or as a lover. Each time you look at me, I won't be able to tell the motivation behind the tenderness in your eyes. And when you're nice to me, or even when you're being an ass and arguing, I'm not sure if you're trying to flirt or just being yourself."
A long, pregnant pause occurred.
"I guess you're somewhat right."
We decided to give it a few months and then reconnect. Then he hung up.