Lunch

"I can't date you," she said.

We had been getting along pretty well and having a good conversation. We had talked about our college days, our thoughts on the station and our thoughts on the business. We had a fun little sideways jaunt into entertainment, and discovered that we like a lot of the same movies. We also discovered that we have somewhat different tastes in music.

Then she asked whether I left a girlfriend behind when I moved here. That led to a mildly uncomfortable discussion of her boyfriend. Of course I wanted to know, but at the same time I really didn't want to know. I listened anyway.

Lynn and Chris work almost opposite schedules. He has to be at work at 6am. She doesn't leave work until after he's already asleep. The lack of time together has put a strain on their relationship.

"I don't feel like we really know each other any more," she said.

They aren't getting along well right now, but she still loves him.

"At least I still think I do," she said.

She didn't sound convincing to me. The question is, was she really wavering as much as she appeared, or was she putting on the appearance of wavering to keep me interested?

I suddenly realized that this kind of conversation was really too serious for a nice lunch date before work between two people who seemed to have a spark between them. I managed to steer the subject to something a little more fun (station gossip) , but every word seemed a tiny bit heavier with the weight of her situation.

Even so, we were still getting along really well, and by the time we got back into the van to head off to work I was feeling pretty confident.

"I was thinking," I said. "Would you like to go out for a drink after work one night? Just the two of us?"

"Hmmm," she said. And then, nothing.

In broadcasting, dead air always seems longer than it really is. If the tape doesn't roll for five seconds while the anchor stares at the camera, it feels like 35 seconds in the studio. What plays on the television at home as ten seconds of black between the newscast and the commercial that didn't run feels like a minute and a half to the guy punching the buttons in the control room.

The same phenomenon settled on the dead air in our conversation. It was mere seconds, but those seconds carried a lot of weight. The first urge that hits you when you get dead air is to fill it with something.

"I mean, it's okay if you're not interested." I winced at my own overwhelming dorkness and felt a large "L" growing out of my forehead.

"It's not that," she said. "I'd like to. But you know I have a boyfriend."

"He's not invited," I said. I glanced over in time to see the corner of her mouth turn upward slightly. The smirk wanted to come back, but it didn't quite make it.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I can't date you."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"No, it's okay," I said. I didn't really mean it.

"You're mad," she said.

"No, I'm not. Really."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, besides, what does it matter if I'm mad or not? You have to do what you have to do."

I was doing my best to mask my disappointment. We were turning into the station parking lot.

"We can still be friends, right?" she asked.

"Sure," I said. In that moment, "sure" meant "no" and "no" meant "yes." And "yes" would have been more of a plea than an answer.

"So you'll still give me a ride home tonight?" she said. She was trying to smirk again and looking at me sideways over the corner of her glasses. Even after all that, there's still something electric in those steel grey eyes.

"Sure," I said. "I'd be happy to."