A Whole Lot Of Nothing

Over the weekend, I've been sequestering myself on my couch, watching DVD's and napping. My brain has effectively been turned off.

Today, coming home from necessary errands (you know, food, so I can continue on sequestering myself in the apartment), I encountered my neighbor, S, outside having a cigarette. He's a 72-year-old acting coach who has lived in the building for 26 years. We've talked on several occasions, which he forgets every time I see him. I try not to take it personally. I know I'm a fabulous conversationalist. Seriously.

I greeted him, reminded him of my name and settled in for a repeat conversation, which was going along as it always does, until he asked me if he could ask a personal question. Which, he quickly clarified, he was doing because he had been enjoying several drinks and 'marijuana cigarettes'.

Oh boy, I thought, this should be good.

I nodded.

'Do you have a boyfriend?'

I shook my head.

'Why not?'

I should have pointed out that he had asked about a personal question, not a difficult one. Or that he had received permission for a question, not multiple questions.

But mostly, I didn't know how to answer.

After a few days spent in my own company, diving into television character's lives, rather than my own - his question felt overwhelming. And unsettling. But most of all, complicated. It's always complicated. I'm tired of it being complicated.

(There were parallel thoughts running through my head, of telling him something completely spectacular, and completely fabricated because, let's face it, this conversation will have never happened the next time I run into him.)

I shrugged, smiled brightly, and rolled my eyes. And then escaped back into my apartment, content to grapple with the complexities of fiction. For now.