When you live 9 hours away from the one you are smitten as fuck with, date-night takes on a whole new meaning.
Netflix+sweats, yesh. But my show stayed on pause for 5 hours while we talked about the universe, life, exes, work, our children, parents and grandparents. Feelings growing like kudzu, about a foot a day, wrapping us us in happy green and changing the landscape. Then we belly laughed for about an hour and made plans.
And it came to me then, that every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time. (Death Cab for Cutie)
It is.
And with every new relationship we must battle the demons of what came before and the cold, cruel, pessimistic leader of their army, Sargent-at -Arms “What If”, his never-ending arsenal, bombs and bullets labeled ‘pain’ and ‘hurt’.
What if it doesn’t work? What if he doesn’t like me anymore? What if he likes me and then stops?
I don’t have to pray to any God’s for that. They have given me the gift of ‘try one more time’. I am optimism walking around in human form. Now is blessed the rest remembered. 90% of the time I only remember the good anyways, so there is that then.
I don’t feel like I have a choice. It’s either that or be a nun or a lesbian considering how I’ve been treated by men.
And men on the internet? Fugedaboudit.
And (gasp) another poet sailing into my inbox? Nope nope nope.
2 years of Chinese water torture under my belt there. The slow drip left me fucking Thirsty.
But I opened the door and invited him in. Didn’t think of any possible outcome beyond friends. He knows everything because I told him.
“2 years?” He said.
“Yesh.” I replied.
“Well that makes no sense.”
I opened my mouth to argue but nothing came out. I allowed myself to briefly imagine how much loving and living could have transpired between the Poet and I in 2 years, and suddenly I was kinda angry.
Who does that?
It’s easy to find all the ways something won’t work out, especially when nothing ever has.
I have the Giant as recent (I think he is still living) proof. Perfection and compatibility and magic mean nothing when you dangle a nice safe waitress in front of a boy. I mean nothing. It hurts.
Men are sweet as fuck to me and then they run.
This one is sweet as fuck and he may yet run.
But why would I deny myself the possibility contained in his eyes, the ones that crinkle at the corners when he looks at me, smile going all the way up and lighting tiny fires there. Why run from that voice? The one that sounds like a young Elvis…low, southern twang, wrapped in velvet and says wonderful things. Why deny the pull between us?
Why turn my back on the body that drove half a day to see me for an hour, the one that radiates heat and looks and feels like home.
Yes, him.
Once upon a time in New Orleans I gave a stripper a lap-dance on around midnight and so began the day of opposites. I stopped adulting. T’was I who suggested getting massages less than an hour before check out from the hotel. T’was I who took a cemetery tour with no way of telling time, just so I could say hello to Marie Laveau and the other ghosts that wander St. Louis. T’was I who said yes to shrimp and grits, knowing we had to be on a plane within the hour.
And it was I who stood under a pillar at O’Hare, tucked in between terminals, wearing a red dress as not to be missed. Eyes darting from the door to the road and back again, like a tennis match, simultaneously waiting on my PIC and him with 2% battery and not a care in the world. I just knew it would all work out.
I wasn’t wrong.
I saw him before he saw me, and I just knew.
“I’m here”, I called out. Head down, studying his phone. “Jason.”
He looked up and smiled, kept coming towards me.
My walk became a run, I totally forgot about watching the door. I forgot about everything beyond closing the gap between us. He opened his arms and I fell into them like I belonged there. Airport chaos forgotten when I asked him to hold my hand and not let go.
He still hasn’t let go.