the proven pudding

It came as no surprise. I turned the corner and remembered suddenly that this has happened before. And his figure was there, the streets empty of cars, the sidewalks quiet and wide, and he stood out among the cement, a lone man with his perpetual baseball cap, his long lean body, the man that I thought was going to be mine someday.

How wrong I was. It all seems so silly to me now, a waste of time, an obvious mess. The last time I saw the drunken ambusher I was a giddy thrilled caricature of myself. This time there was the lack of his pull on me. I had no need to fall into his orbit, he had no power over me. In fact, I barely broke my stride as I approached him, said hello, and continued on.

Of course, I am still impressed by our banter, which has never wavered from top shelf quality exchanges the sort worthy of another era where puns, words and wittiness were prized above all else. It is rare that I muster up the verbal enthusiasm needed for those exchanges with people, but he brings that out in me. I am always trying to impress him, I guess.

My eyes were tearing up from a host of different things, I had just put on makeup, I'm allergic to the cats, I was saddened by the typical morning glumness of the kid, when I turned the corner. I rolled my eyes. I had to walk past him to get to the cafe, I had to wipe away the streaming tears. And they wouldn't stop. By the time I reached him, I looked up to see him expecting my approach, resigned to speaking to me, a little concern in his eyes.

He asked if I was crying. I said I was just allergic to being outside. We laughed. We said other things, pleasantries, and then I turned and kept walking.

When I arrived at the cafe I realized that clarification was needed, that our encounter was awkward in some ways, that it may have seemed like I was trying to get away from his as fast as possible. I texted him, which I haven't done in about a week and a half. And even that was a fluke. Mostly it's been three weeks, since the brit's arrival on my horizons, since I realized that feeling and having a mutual attraction was so much more worthwhile.

Our texts were still friendly, because we're more comfortable there, in words, than face to face, and I told him about not getting in to Iowa. And he didn't respond. And for an hour or so I figured he was just busy arriving to work in the cab that he stood waiting in the barren street for. After that, I realized that he didn't register it, because it was sandwiched in between two unrelated sentences. No one could be that self absorbed and insensitive. Well, I didn't think he had it in him, despite his track record.

And I didn't hound him, or wonder or care. I actually forgot all about it until I saw him again this morning, except this time I was already at the cafe, walked down the empty street figuring he'd been and gone, but an hour later his figure ambled into my peripheral vision and my eyes were drawn up from the newspaper to see who was there. And he waved, smiled, and I did the same in return and he kept walking in search of his cab.

My eyes went back to the paper, but the memory of his ignoring my news returned, so I launched up out of my chair and headed out after him. His eyes were desperately scanning the streets and he welcomed my arrival at his side with those eyes, the kind of sad sick eyes that you never want to see, the sort of eyes that glaze over you as an obstacle blocking the road ahead.

I tried to tell him, but he was too frantic, too stressed about being late to work, too freaked out. When it finally broke in, he actually stopped, he actually lost that distant faraway look and looked me in the eye, not afraid of me anymore, and gave me his sorrows, offered me a hug and mourned with me. And I told him, what I've tried to tell the rest of them, but it felt real telling him, not like a defense mechanism, that it's okay, because it doesn't matter, and now, the now is so much more exciting than that.

And the cab he needed arrived and he said it, he knew it, he said that the world was mine now.

And even though in my heart I've never loved him more than I did in that moment, when he was able to step out of himself and really be with me even just for a moment, and not just be with me, but get me completely, I don't feel like there's anything more to do or say with him. I don't feel the need to chase him into my life again. And that is what the brit gave me. And I am so glad.

happy birthday manchester dave

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.

a song to pass the time

I noticed him standing in the window smoking. He had on a green cable knit hat and a heavy royal blue cable knit sweater that zipped up the front. The knits stood out in stark world of black bar wear. I've been knitting again so I've been drawn to knitwear these days.

I wondered when he'd arrived (found out later it was well before us) and I hoped with the heaviness of all my recent disappointments that he might have liked the look I had, my grey hat on my head, my green sweater, my multitude of beads. I was tired from working that morning, I was worn out from my day, my eyes were red and itchy from my friend Patty's cute cats (who I can't resist petting, even though I'm allergic), but despite all that I was especially happy to hang out with Patty and to be somewhere new.

The bar was colorful and a little harshly bright (those of us who are older find this somewhat stressful) and looking back on it, I realize I should have said I was in no state to go out that night, having had such a full day. For I was completely distracted by the men in the bar, new men I didn't know (as opposed to the cast of familar faces at my usual haunts) and doubly distracted by the notion that I was just as exciting of a prospect to the men as well!

My downfall arrived in the mouth of the knitwearing man who spoke within earshot of me, likely on purpose, and I detected a smooth clipped obvious British accent. Any hope of having a fun night out with my friend became a frenzy of looks and gestures and comments subconciously meant to solicit his attentions, which my bruised ego chanted would not work anyway.

I couldn't have been more mistaken. Apparently, the second I entered the bar and sat in his line of sight, his attentions to his company for the evening were thoroughly compromised by my very presence. He made it his duty to muster up the courage to vanquish his usually shy demeanor to speak to me.

And what we found waiting in each other was, in essence, simply a good time. And a boost of confidence to have good times with anyone.