As I grapple with the lovely bubble of perfection I shared with him and attempt to hold it's shiny, rainbow tinged exterior to scrutiny, while mentally dwelling in the extreme bliss inside it, I've had many different attempts at conclusions:
A week later and I'm lamenting, kicking myself for my fear of rejection was so strong I did not ask him when I would see him again, if ever. It humors me that I managed to find the only man in the world who was delightfully perfect for me and not even ask his surname.
It may be the only relationship I've ever experienced that will never be ruined by me. It will never suffer at the throes of my insecurities vast and unrelenting, it will never wither under my critical eye, and it will never be destroyed by my subterfuge.
Did I find him attractive and likeable because he reminded me of the other British man I once knew? Could it be that I am looking for someone who is a convincing enough version of the married man I once loved and probably still love to some degree? I try to tell myself this cannot be true because even the married man was someone who made me nervous, who made me feel inadequate somehow, someone I could not always be comfortable around.
I am a gigantic meaning making machine and this random and odd occurrence is quite the challenge. To experience a harmonious evening with a man and genuinely want more (where usually I manufacture interest for the sake of the sad lonely me that's scared to be alone) and with my luck, he just so happens to live an ocean away. I will likely never see him again, but then what exactly was the point? And why do I want there to be one? Wasn't it fate that brought us together that night, that forced him to talk to me, that took me away from my regular perch to a new place? Why? Why? Why? There might never be a because.
Should I bother even looking for him? To cobble together the few details of him I remember to find him, to find him online somewhere, for what? Will I embark on a far distance relationship that will eventually sputter and fade into nonexistence? Isn't it better that I just leave that beautiful bubble in the air to float out my view, to travel where it will and when enough time passes, it will blink out of existence and be just a memory?
Will I ever stop feeling this way? Will I ever stop thinking of the way his hands felt under my shirt, the way his eyes met mine across the pool table, the way his arm fit across my shoulders and his fingers played with my hair, the playfulness of our conversations under his smiling guidance, the physical attraction that was so strong we literally collided into one another repeatedly, feet, hips, shoulders, hands, anything that was inches away suddenly wasn't, space between us didn't exist. The way he teased me about my writing, my reading, my living. The way he detailed his many travels, the awe in his voice as he recalled his most favorite vista among those travels.
Will I ever be able to walk past the places we bounced to (from one bar to four more) without thinking of him and the moments we shared between them, the city we travelled around, the way his hand gripped my knee reassuringly in the cab, not just a touch to touch, but a touch to say, I am here. Or the moments of intense quiet we shared where we didn't even need words to fill the air around us, we just existed together, side by side. Or the smiles I evoked in him, from the steel giraffes, to the scared rat, to the cop car, or the insistence I had that he see the lakefront.
I can't believe we only kissed once, or maybe the others were just part of that time when time and the world fell away, but his kiss seems so out of focus as a physical experience because it seemed so natural and likely. I wasn't wondering when he'd kiss me, I knew it would be coming eventually, but I was surprised and thrilled by the when. I was happy that he kissed me in front of everyone, and everyone stopped to see the collision they'd been waiting for, that began at our feet, which kicked and prodded and moved up through our legs and into our chests and arms and fingers and then suddenly it was certain, we were certain, it was not just a game, he leaned over and kissed me.
It told me so many things, that he didn't do that very often, not because he was bad at it, but because he wasn't smooth like other kissers have been, he wasn't a move maker, he just leaned in and kissed me. It told me that he liked me, and didn't just want to have sex with me (which we actually didn't have in the end; he could have gone back to the hostel room he paid for, but he spent the night at my place and slept next to me on my floor, which I enjoyed immensely). It told me that he was spontaneous and impatient; which I liked most of all. That kiss told me that all the men in my life that I've struggled with, wondered about, pined over, were all absolutely a waste of my time.
That night, that epic collision is what I'd always wanted and when I see it again, I'll know that feeling of being genuinely liked and wanted by a man who I genuinely like and want. Every man before him was a manufactured mess because I was trying to make something out of nothing. He gave me that sense of peace I could never find on my own. But what he's left in its place is an outrage, a horrible sense of panic, a desperate hysteria, because I worry that I will never see him again.
When he left in the morning, there was a strange mutual sadness, and neither of us said anything about the future. I walked him to a cab and he left in a fog. At the time, it was very disappointing. I felt totally hollowed out and confused. I tried to diminish the night, the twelve hours, the whirlwind, the looks, the touching, the words. It didn't mean anything on its own. It had no significance as a single night in my long life. And somehow that morning, it felt wrong, so I chalked it up to the file drawer of men sucking. I wondered how guys could go through something like that and come out of it with a shrug. Maybe he was being realistic, he lives far, it'll never work out, etc. Maybe he was hungover, jet-lagged, worried about getting back to his hostel and his luggage before check out time. Maybe he was embarrassed that I got to see what was hiding under his hat and he was worried the mystery of it all was gone for me. Maybe he was waiting for me to say something.
Am I just doing it again, making something out of nothing? It would be easier that way. If only it was the typical scene I've played out so many times in bars, to find a connection, to force a connection, to feel something.
Then all of this would be easier. I wouldn't feel anything. I wouldn't want to remember every little detail. And what seems worst of all, if he's already forgotten me, I wouldn't care. Maybe by not saying anything, I did the ruining part after all.
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