I find myself now surprised, perhaps disappointed with myself at the way I have let these fantasies about Ana consume me over the past few days.
All of this began last week when we received an email from her offering a high chair. Since we needed one, we took her up on the offer. I was even disappointed, I admit, that I think the first email was to Anya alone and not me. It seems like something else must have precipitated this ... but I cannot remember what it was.
The fire was lit, however, when Ana responded to my email trying to suggest a time for me to pick up the high chair. In that email she seemed to emphasize the fact that her husband would not be there at one time, and that might be the best. The image of her kiss splashed over me, consumed me.
Unfortunately, I could not take that opportunity because I had agree to go on an ill-fated sailing trip. Ugh, how angering that whole experience was. That, for another time. And I think I was stuck for a few days, wondering how I could express what I thought would be reciprocal interest in Ana, although I could not meet her at that time.
So I sent her an email from this address. Leaving myself hidden by my pseudonym. It was very short and quite stupid. Naturally, she did what anyone would do when receiving a short, mysterious email from no-one in particular. Nothing. There is something funny about this, and in particular the hope that I had that I might receive a response. But the fact is, unless she was desperate, she would not respond. Just as I was not desperate enough to make my own person visible, but chose to maintain within a circle of irresponsibility, from which I could deny authorship.
Now I am thinking about how doing nothing is here considered an action. Ha!
But that for another time. What we are really dealing with are symptoms. I have found myself attracted to Ana since I met her, several years ago. But our encounters were passing, insignificant. That only changed in the past year when our circle of friends came together and Anya and I were able to attend. Yet I had not believed anything significant developed between us. Not, I guess, until that simple, single email from her. Which perhaps inadvertently emphasized her husband's absence, her presence.
I suppose I am desperate, in some regards. I am so angry and unhappy right now. Which makes no sense, since Marcello is so wonderful. But other things are crap, between even myself an Anya. Some of it predictable, since she's gotten a new job and I've remained only underemployed.
