Put me out of my misery. Shoot me like a wounded animal. I should call her later - that is why I asked for the number after all. I want to know, but am afraid to find out. It wasn't just the copious alcohol last week - there was something other. She didn't wake up next morning with a hangover thinking "why the hell was I dancing with that fat fuck?" I seems she wants a chaperone present when next we meet - so there must be some misgivings. Sensible. Another week to wait. I have her number. She knows I have her number. She doesn't mind that I have her number. And the walls come tumbling down. Shattered. I don't know the rules anymore. I don't know what is happening. I wish I had some basis for comparison. The isn't going anywhere. Time to stop.
Saturday, 6 November 1999
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