that Aubrey and I have feelings for one another, trekked across campus to put me straight, informing me of my misplaced anger and wildly inappropriate accusations. What I saw on Tuesday night was not a lovers’ embrace after all, but Aubrey physically propping up a drunk and despondent Matt for fear that he might fall flat on his face.
In short, I jumped to conclusions and refused to contemplate that there might be an explanation for what I saw, other than infidelity. The question that reared its ugly head, of course, was “why?” Why was it so easy for me to assume Aubrey was being deceitful? The only answer I could conceive of is that it was convenient. No man relishes betrayal, and I’m certainly no exception. However, for me, inherent in this supposed betrayal was an escape clause—an opportunity to weasel my way out of a relationship which was forcing me to behave unscrupulously and making me consider a course of action I hatched last Sunday, but clearly didn’t want to pursue: the voluntary switching of courses, or the complete abandonment of my Teaching Assistant position for the semester.
These options were both distasteful. The fact that I avoided bringing the subject up with Martin, even after I’d decided on the solution, proves that I didn’t want to broach the topic. Thinking Aubrey unfaithful was an easy out, making me, quite plainly, a coward. Of course, I didn’t connect the dots all week, not comprehending that I was the one pushing her away, and not the other way around. I did a stellar job of alienating her, but I didn’t understand how successful I was in my efforts until Matt explained that Aubrey was prepared to move on, and that someone seemed to be hovering in the wings waiting for her to be ready. The final nail in the coffin came when I looked in the bag Julie gave me after tutorial. When I found the gloves, T-shirt, and calendar I’d given Aubrey, I knew she meant business.
Somehow, seeing this ACTUAL evidence of her desire to wash her hands of me, brought me face to face with the truth: I couldn’t bear to lose her, and if she turned her back on me for good, I’d have no one but myself to blame for having destroyed the fragile connection we’d forged in the preceding weeks.
That’s why it seems impossible to me that no more than two hours ago, after talking at length, we managed to patch things up. Not only did I humble myself by taking full responsibility for our misunderstanding, I also shared with her the story of what happened at Oxford last year. Initially, my reason for telling her was to give her greater insight into my struggles with impropriety and to perhaps justify my wildly swinging moods. But also, what better way to prove to Aubrey that I know I was wrong to question her integrity this week than to entrust her with my deepest secret?
There was an instant during my confession when I thought she might be doubting my claim that I didn’t behave at all inappropriately with Nicola—after all, what was I to think when she said to me, “Did you molest that girl, Daniel?” But when I vociferously denied any wrongdoing, Aubrey looked at me with an expression of the deepest compassion and said, “I had to ask. I thought you might like to see what it feels like to be asked the question by someone who’d believe your answer unequivocally.” Is it any surprise then, that I’ve given myself over entirely to the stirrings of my heart?
Moments later, we found ourselves dancing together (at the Palais Royale, no less) and drinking champagne. And now I sit here remembering not just the feel of her body pressed against mine, but the taste of her lips, because yes, at last I took the plunge: I finally stole a kiss—though to say I stole this kiss would imply an unwillingness on Aubrey’s part, and in light of her passionate response to my advances, it’s fair to say she was an enthusiastic participant. Now our first kiss is branded on my tongue, and it’s truly sealed my
In short, I jumped to conclusions and refused to contemplate that there might be an explanation for what I saw, other than infidelity. The question that reared its ugly head, of course, was “why?” Why was it so easy for me to assume Aubrey was being deceitful? The only answer I could conceive of is that it was convenient. No man relishes betrayal, and I’m certainly no exception. However, for me, inherent in this supposed betrayal was an escape clause—an opportunity to weasel my way out of a relationship which was forcing me to behave unscrupulously and making me consider a course of action I hatched last Sunday, but clearly didn’t want to pursue: the voluntary switching of courses, or the complete abandonment of my Teaching Assistant position for the semester.
These options were both distasteful. The fact that I avoided bringing the subject up with Martin, even after I’d decided on the solution, proves that I didn’t want to broach the topic. Thinking Aubrey unfaithful was an easy out, making me, quite plainly, a coward. Of course, I didn’t connect the dots all week, not comprehending that I was the one pushing her away, and not the other way around. I did a stellar job of alienating her, but I didn’t understand how successful I was in my efforts until Matt explained that Aubrey was prepared to move on, and that someone seemed to be hovering in the wings waiting for her to be ready. The final nail in the coffin came when I looked in the bag Julie gave me after tutorial. When I found the gloves, T-shirt, and calendar I’d given Aubrey, I knew she meant business.
Somehow, seeing this ACTUAL evidence of her desire to wash her hands of me, brought me face to face with the truth: I couldn’t bear to lose her, and if she turned her back on me for good, I’d have no one but myself to blame for having destroyed the fragile connection we’d forged in the preceding weeks.
That’s why it seems impossible to me that no more than two hours ago, after talking at length, we managed to patch things up. Not only did I humble myself by taking full responsibility for our misunderstanding, I also shared with her the story of what happened at Oxford last year. Initially, my reason for telling her was to give her greater insight into my struggles with impropriety and to perhaps justify my wildly swinging moods. But also, what better way to prove to Aubrey that I know I was wrong to question her integrity this week than to entrust her with my deepest secret?
There was an instant during my confession when I thought she might be doubting my claim that I didn’t behave at all inappropriately with Nicola—after all, what was I to think when she said to me, “Did you molest that girl, Daniel?” But when I vociferously denied any wrongdoing, Aubrey looked at me with an expression of the deepest compassion and said, “I had to ask. I thought you might like to see what it feels like to be asked the question by someone who’d believe your answer unequivocally.” Is it any surprise then, that I’ve given myself over entirely to the stirrings of my heart?
Moments later, we found ourselves dancing together (at the Palais Royale, no less) and drinking champagne. And now I sit here remembering not just the feel of her body pressed against mine, but the taste of her lips, because yes, at last I took the plunge: I finally stole a kiss—though to say I stole this kiss would imply an unwillingness on Aubrey’s part, and in light of her passionate response to my advances, it’s fair to say she was an enthusiastic participant. Now our first kiss is branded on my tongue, and it’s truly sealed my
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