Food poisoning is not the easy-going no-big-deal experience I always thought it was.

I basically stayed in bed until 3:30pm today, except for a half-hour break to eat breakfast. (A breakfast that was cooked for me, I might add. Fresh strawberries and everything. I felt very spoiled.)

Around 8pm I took his CRV to my house to get a shower and get ready for an evening out. Called Audrey to update her on the whole incident, and she reported she felt just fine. She asked me if I were staying in and taking it easy tonight. No, I laughed, it’s no big deal.

By the time I finished my shower I was wishing I’d just stayed in bed.

Getting ready took twice as long as usual, and I was exhausted by the time I got back to Mike’s. We ended up heading to TGI Friday’s for dinner, and nothing really sounded good to me but oatmeal or fresh fruit.

*sigh*

He was in a funny mood, and it was slightly lubricated by a couple big ol’ Killian’s Red Lagers.

Our waiter was incredibly funny and “charming” in the verb-y sort of way, reminding me of Raymond, so I told Mike the story of the waiter. It used to be a “great” story - one I enjoyed telling. But tonight it actually sounded awfully hollow and sad. I let myself put up with that? And I thought it was great?

Ugh.

My stomach was still rolling, and after I told the waiter I’d nearly been poisoned yesterday, he took my entree off the bill and brought an ice cream out for me instead. That was easier to deal with.

But Mike wasn’t.

One of our regular conversations, strangely, is about my interest in smoking something not necessarily in the legal realm. He sat tonight, eyes seeing into my soul, and asked me why I was so fascinated with it. Why did I want to try it so much? Joking off the answer didn’t work, and all he said was that he knew there’s more than just a curiosity here. And for some reason, I had no interest in exploring the answer to his question.

Sometime after my Ray story, he made some comment about how the pathetic “dating” life I’ve had bothers him, and he said he sees “this much” (fingers awfully close together) self-esteem, and “this much” (hands wide apart) need to be loved during that time.

He says this shit like it’s just the most obvious fact in the world. He pulls my soul out and hands it to me with nonchalant matter-of-factness. Not painfully, or abruptly, but with ease that scares me to death. To mask my sudden need to run far, far away, I told him that I should just see him and not Doug, but that he shouldn’t expect the $95 an hour.

At one point, one beer down and one beer half-way finished, we’re chatting about something, and he says he’s not the jealous type. I said, “oh yeah?” or something else relatively bland, and he says, “yeah, and that really bothers you.”

I sat there looking at him for a minute, and suddenly realized that I’m as transparent as water to this guy. Part of me thinks it’s cool, and part of me is scared shitless.

I don’t know what to do.

He watched me intently throughout dinner, and it irritates the life out of me that I find myself asking, “What?” ten times an hour. Why can’t I just read him like I can read everyone else and get it over with? Those brown eyes (exact color still undefined) pull me in and hold me just far enough away.

In them, everything makes sense, and nothing is clear.

No longer a game,

michelle