Page 67 of Orc'd At A Wedding
I did not believe her.
I assumed I knew better. I assumed I understood her needs and her future better than she did. I treated her like a client who required protection from her own decisions.
I dismissed her agency entirely.
I stop pacing.
This is a solvable problem.
For fifteen years I’ve solved problems that involve hostile actors, incomplete intelligence, and significant risk of physical harm.
This problem involves apologizing to a woman I am in love with and convincing her that I am capable of growth and change and not being a complete fool.
Comparatively, this should be simple.
I grab my phone.
I pull up Bliss's contact information, my thumb hovering over the call button.
I stop.
Calling is insufficient.
Bliss deserves a proper apology, delivered in person, with full accountability and a concrete plan for how I will be better.
She deserves a gesture that demonstrates I understand the gravity of my error.
She deserves?—
I pause.
She deserves something tactical.
I spendthe next six hours planning.
I make lists. I review options. I discard seventeen different approaches before settling on one that feels appropriately direct and sufficiently humble.
At 2100 hours, I get in my car and drive to Bliss's apartment.
I know where she lives.
She put her address in the original gig-work contract, and I have a well-trained memory for logistical details.
Her building is in a significantly nicer neighborhood than mine. The lobby has a doorman. The floors are actual marble instead of vinyl pretending to be marble.
I park on the street and sit in the car, staring up at the lit windows.
I do not know which one is hers.
I check the time.
It is too late to knock on her door unannounced. Showing up at 2100 hours without warning is not romantic. It is vaguely threatening.
I will wait until tomorrow.
I will arrive at a reasonable hour, wearing a clean suit, carrying a verbal apology I have rehearsed to eliminate all potential ambiguities.
I will be calm, respectful, and devastatingly sincere.
