Suffering by James W. Fried

A man blows his chance to have a romantic relationship with a woman, decides later that he made a mistake, and suffers the consequences.

On the day before Thanksgiving, she caught me window-shopping on Charles Street and asked if I could meet her later at our favorite hotel—it was called the Ritz then.
“Sure,” I said. “I’m not the one with a turkey to bake.”
I arrived first and grabbed a seat at our prize table—the one against the front windows where we liked to people-watch. I knew something was up the minute she sat down because she wasn’t her usual perky self.
“I’m worried about you,” she said, after our waiter had placed a bottle of Pinot Noir on the table between us. “You seem depressed.”
“Of course I’m depressed. I’m lonely.”
“What in the world do you have to be depressed about? You’re a successful reporter at one of the best newspapers in the country.”
“You’re so shallow. All you see in me is someone who pounds on a keyboard like a one-dimensional robot.” She cocked her head and frowned.
“Look, I’m beginning to understand my problem,” I said. “It stares back at me every day from the mirror.” I peered into my drink. “You can’t relate. You’ve got every horny male in Boston chasing you around…a few females, too.” She just stared, not appreciating my attempt at humor. “No one’s chasing me,” I went on. “It’s hard when you realize you’re not such hot shit.”
O leaned across the table and patted my arm. “Are we feeling sorry for ourselves?” My cheeks burned, but I let the comment pass and watched her sit back. “You’re a better catch than you might think, sweetheart,” she said, her voice softening. I watched while she sucked in her breath, as if bracing herself. “For your information, I know someone who’s been interested in you for quite a while.”
Her patronizing comment made me smile. “Oh yeah, who?”
She leaned forward again and locked her eyes on mine, as if she were preparing to share the secret of life. Then her lips formed into a delicious smile. “Me.”
With one word—me—she transformed our years of friendship into something completely different. It was surreal the way she had effortlessly turned water into wine.
Unfortunately, my response turned it back to water again.
It sounds funny now, but I had never seriously considered dating O. We were close friends—too close, I thought, to ever find one another appealing in a romantic way. I loved her radiant smile and the effect she had on me when she opened up; but she was my confidant, my buddy.
Now, as I examined her narrowing eyes and focused on her mouth as it softened into a half-embarrassed grin, I realized more than ever how important her friendship was to me. In a strange way, it made me sad. A gulf had been crossed. I hated myself for how I felt, but her admission gave me a sense of empowerment, and I knew that now I had the upper hand.
Taking two twenties from my pocket and laying them on the table, I said, “Come on, let’s walk.”
The dreary gray November afternoon had settled into darkness as we glided out the revolving glass doors of the hotel and across Arlington Street into the Public Garden. We strolled in silence past the garden’s lake, across Charles Street, and into the Common. When we reached Tremont, we made a loop around the Frog Pond, then returned to the Garden and down the winding sidewalk until we reached the magnificent statue of George Washington on horseback.