The in between

We're very happy together.

It's almost worrisome, how well I'm adjusting to relationship life. Being such good friends first makes it easier and more difficult in some ways. Easier because it feels like I'm making an informed decision about who I'm dating, I don't have to get used to annoying quirks or find out things I may consider deal-breakers down the line. It's helpful, the friends-first thing.

However. The friends-first thing is cumbersome because for a while I seriously didn't think we would ever date, and thus dated (or just good old fashioned kissed) several of his friends. And he met many guys I previously dated. All because I didn't think we were going to become a couple. I thought we didn't have a chance.

But that may be the beauty of it. I didn't think it was possible. And it's not convenient because we're both living in Chicago now. That's what we told ourselves: that it was too convenient to be together. But the thing is, I got to choose him. We all know I have no trouble scrounging up men to date. Good guys, even. I may be a serial dater, but I tend to date good men. So there were good men in the picture, and still, it was: him.

(And don't tell him, but I think creepy nice things about him all the time. Longevity things. Years from now things. I don't believe in marriage as a formula for love, or love as a formula for marriage, but I believe in being with him for some time.)

I'm young. I'm in love. I can't be trusted.

(The thing is,

I'm tired of liking someone enough.)

Saying all the right things

I made the decision. It wasn't easy. I had to trust my instincts, and now I must continue to trust myself. To know that I weighed the options. That I thought it through. That I based my decision on facts, feelings, truth.

I saw The New Guy, perhaps now the Former Guy? My apartment is cold. He graciously offered to let me borrow a spare space heater. I went over to his house. Wasn't sure how to act. Wasn't sure what to say. How close to sit. Because we're officially just friends. Aren't we? It was fine, all well and good, except that there is chemistry. There is still chemistry. It didn't dissipate in four days.

I like him enough to want to see him still, just with all his clothes on. With all my clothes on. Because I'm in a relationship. Because I'm in love. Walking home from his house, heater in hand, all I could think was about the decision I made.

I didn't choose him. He knows that and I know that and we're still going to be friends. We are friends. The truth is, I want to be in love. I'm happy in love. I'm happy. This is the good part. This is the part I'll remember. Not the random dating and having drinks and awkward morning afters (despite the good stories they all make). I want to be in love. I want to wake up pressed against Mr. Right and know, know without a doubt, that it's right. That there's nowhere I'd rather be, no one who understands me better, no one else to love. Only him.

Better left unsaid

There may just be too much between us. Too much history. Too many words. Too much hurt.

One last hurrah

Fine. Fine.

I made my decision. I decided to end it with The New Guy. I can't keep up the "I love you" charade but still be dating someone else. I love someone else. I can't also be casually seeing someone else. I thought we were doing the slow fade. I thought it was working perfectly. Nope.

So we met for drinks. I thought a public place and alcohol would steel me for breaking the news. I thought it would help. It just made it easier to have One Last Hurrah. We were talking, having good conversation, and finally, three drinks in and him wanting to leave (with me in tow), I had to fess up. Tell him the news. I got serious with someone. Someone who isn't you.

And he took it just fine. It was hard to say, because I like The New Guy. I do. It was hard to make the decision to end it. To just go with Love. (Who am I kidding? Love was always the clear winner.) So there I was: a little drunk and validating my decision, and he was listening but not really, too interested in the new boundaries of our relationship. Too interested in both of us being a little drunk and too used to the idea of me following him home. Me waking up in his bed. Me sitting on his couch. Us drinking coffee in the morning. Listening to records in his living room. Me trying to get on his cat's good side (there is no good side for all interested parties.). Too interested in the part where we are no longer what we were.

Love and other drugs

This is me. In a relationship.

In love.

Keep the back burner on low

I woke up next to Mr. Right. We talked about What To Do. He said that I always have someone on the back burner. That he's hesitant. I told him, I know.

(I know this. I know. I date. I'm a dater. I'm a hand-wringing obsessive always someone on the back burner dater. I know how to date. Relationships, though. I get scared. I worry. I panic. I sabotage. I sabotage and ruin it. I stir up trouble. I know my shortcomings. I know I do this. I kiss other men.

I love the back burner. I love the line up. I know the back burner. It's what I do. It's all about knowing my habits, understanding my patterns, creating new habits, new patterns; forging ahead.)

(I will forge ahead.)

Stolen words

Somehow I was hoping you would be next to me when I woke up.

[This was a text to me. From Him.]

Give me a minute

I can't deal with this juggling. One man and one man and one man. And me.

I think I'm done with The New Guy. It's time to make a decision. The Decision. I'm not interested. I'm not. But I kind of am. I'm not interested enough. But I'm interested enough to not make a decision. To be indecisive. I'm not sure what to do with him. Where to categorize him. I like him. Enough. But.

I am in love with Mr. Right. But suddenly, suddenly, because we're in love, I crave all this time to myself. Time to paint my nails and watch girl television and veg. Time to accept text messages from The Doctor and wonder why The Married man hasn't e-mailed me back. Time to do my obsessive things.

It's wonderful.

Except that I'm mixed up. I love the constant flow of men, the space to myself, the love. I want to be in love. I want to have my space. I want the constant flow of men?

Love letter, part III

Get your shit together. Come visit me.

I wouldn't hate it.

(Romance. I know.)

A love story

It felt different. It feels different.

Mr. Right and I had a talk. We talked about us. About how we're dating other people. That it's not fair to move here and then finally date each other. We had years before [each separately] moving here to date each other. And we didn't.

And now we're here. And I told him, "I love you."

And he said, "I love you, too."

But don't get me wrong. We're not dating. We're still seeing other people. We're in love. We're seeing other people.

(The hard part about seeing other people? I don't love other people. I love him. The hard part about loving him? Scared to death I will mess it up.)

Barometric

On a scale of one to looking-for-trouble-and-crushed-dreams: me showering off the smell of Mr. Right so that I can meet The New Guy for drinks. Is there a barometer for this?

Snail mail

Alright. Alright. Now I'm just being stupid. I'm doing stupid things. I'm drinking a little too much, using the information I know, and sending emails.

I emailed The Married Man. Maybe I should change his pseudonym. Because, again, he's not married. But he is taken, and it is wholly inappropriate for me to email him.

I've got to stop drinking.

And also Google mapping exactly how far he went out of his way to walk me home. Two and a half miles out of his way.

Boys with girlfriends

So. So. Here I am. Pajama-ed. Pajama-ed after having been walked home by that boy who has the girlfriend who I hoped to see at the mutual friends' birthday party. Pajama-ed and still assessing. Obsessively assessing. He stood too close to me all night. We traded silly dance moves. He walked me home.

I'm trying to see the bigger picture here. The he-has-a-girlfriend picture. I just get so distracted. It doesn't feel tawdry, or inappropriate, it just feels like we're talking, like we're hanging out, and like we're attracted to each other.

Attraction. Causation. I'm not that smooth. I didn't put the moves on him. I didn't think to. I was just talking. Allowing him to walk me home. Walking and knowing full and well that even the walking was wrong.

How do I do this? How do I move to a new city and have difficulty finding a job, but no problem whatsoever finding men to line up? Seriously? Seriously?

This is a level I've never hit before, me feeling like I can't control this, like things in common don't matter, like this attraction doesn't even make sense, like nothing makes sense, except that I like him. I get a feeling about him. I just feel differently. Holy hell. What does that mean?

I know better than to be friends with boys with girlfriends.

The space between

The exchange via text last night between The Doctor and me:

Hi Chicago,

Come see me please.

Thanks,

Seattle

Hey Seattle,

Wish you were here.

Love,

Chicago

In other news...

I met a guy a few weeks ago, a friend of a friend, a friend of a friend who has a girlfriend, who doesn't understand my humor, who may have a drinking problem. And he fascinates me. This is the attraction part, the chemistry, the unexplainable bit, the part I can't control for a second, even though I'm not (and would not) actively pursue this relationship-ped man, I can't help but feel drawn to him (trite expressions will only work in this case).

I can't put it into words. I can't make it make sense. I can't make a pretty statement and have all the loose ends put into place.

I just get a feeling. I don't want to make eye contact with him. I worry I will give myself away. I don't know his last name, so I just spent more time than I should admit Googling him using what I think may be his e-mail address. I'm not even sure.

And this is me not so secretly admitting that I hope to see him tonight at a mutual friends' birthday party. There, I've said it.

It's just like cracking an egg

Maybe it's time for me to buckle down and do this. Describe this. Get to the root of it, get to the point. Tell you the truth. Tell myself the truth. Or some version.

We sleep next to each other most nights, curled up against one another, holding hands. It's not about sex (mostly). It's comfort. Nearness. We go out of our way to do little things for each other, him cooking for me, me folding his socks when he leaves his laundry at my house. Laughing at the absurdity of the things we say, kissing when we get tired of talking. Discovering all the places in our neighborhood that have cheap beer and good cheese. Watching crime shows together until he falls asleep and I creep closer and breathe him in. I touch his knee all the time.

I can't decide who reminds me of who because he did this thing to my knee - that thing that looks like you're cracking an egg - and I thought of The New Guy. But when I see The New Guy next will it remind me of Mr. Right? Because they both do it. Is it humorous that it's not even sex? I don't have sex guilt. I have knee egg cracking guilt.

Beginning of the end

I'm trying to sound like I know something, like I understand the rules here, like it all makes sense to me. It doesn't make sense to me. The kissing I get. It's the bit in between. He leads his life. I lead mine. And I have no idea where this is going, this sporadic contact, this beginning, or is it a beginning? That's just it, maybe. I always just assume it's a beginning when in reality, maybe it's not a big deal, nothing much, just dicking around. And maybe it's giving away too much to admit to this, but I can't ever tell. I always give too much of myself, think it's something, when it's nothing.

The more you say the less you say

Perhaps as a general update, a general reminder that I am here, I am participating in this social experiment of kissing, of telling, of anecdotes and reminders and humorous gone-wrongs. I am here.

There may just be too much to say.

Life's a dance

The New Guy. Should I give him a name? Will he continue to be New? Will he continue to be in the picture? It's all up in the air right now. I'm not sure where we stand, what may happen. We're doing the dance.

The one where I'm not sure how to act sometimes [all the times], sometimes where it feels like there's a space between us, where the things we say probably don't mean a thing. It's the space between the words, the movement between us, the smell of him on my skin. All these words feel trite and unnecessary. Why, there's no need, when I can still smell him on me, can feel the space of the words between us.

And then, oh here I go, coming home from the New Guy, and there sits Mr. Right's laundry. There it is. Left over from the previous day when we had grand plans to drink cheap beer and do our laundry together. The plan got scrapped. His laundry remained. So here I am, folding his shirts, breathing in the way they still smell like him even after I've washed them.

It doesn't add up. I can't leave the New Guy and then find myself smelling Mr. Right's freshly laundered shirts. Bizarre circumstances aside, this doesn't add up.

Indecisive

The New Guy is back in the picture.

This is me, not making a decision.

It couldn't be

Wait. Is this me making an informed dating decision?

What?

Territorial

Is the new thing drinks dates sex done? Is this the new standard?

And is it normal for me to think that maybe I'm falling in love with my best friend? Is it normal that maybe we're normal, that we are in love, that it's been a long time coming, that I don't want to convince myself but maybe, the thing is, it's too late: I'm already in love with him.

And is it normal to think I'm already in love with him but let me first see if the New Guy calls?

Um. I've got a couple of things to sort out.

Who said it was ever smooth? It's a big leap, deciding you love your best friend. It's in my hands, it's always been, and now I feel faced with this: our future. It's contingent upon me and I know that I'm holding the cards, I know I am, and that's what makes it so hard. I'm scared to lose my best friend. That we give it a go and we lose it. We lose it all. I feel culpable.

But it wouldn't even be different between us. He would still understand me in strange and perfect ways. We would still laugh. Ride the train. Talk about the things we talk about. Go to dinner parties together. Cook obscene breakfasts together. Take naps and hold hands.

I think I'm using the New Guy as an excuse to not look at the situation for what it is. Or am I? He's a nice guy, we had decent chemistry, but. But. Alright. He's a novelty to me. I think that's it. Uncharted territory. Why am I so damn interested in charting territory?

I always thought a man would sweep me off my feet. I thought that I would finally become the person I want to be when the perfect relationship came along. When the perfect man came along. And I know that I'm a work in progress, always will be, will keep getting better, but The One has been with me sitting at my kitchen table drinking until dawn getting into fights on my front porch falling asleep next to me looking at me looking at him for two years already?

Am I even making sense? Do I ever make sense?

Pumpkin Soup, by Kate Nash

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LCr81kVTdqE&ob=av2e

When Harry Met Sally. Or something along those lines.

Okay. I'm no longer the victim here. This is me. Making very conscious decisions. Me drinking too much and falling asleep next to Mr. Right, me waking up to him, me touching him, me thinking about The New Guy?!

What kind of self-sabotage am I getting at?

Make a decision. Make a decision. It's like I have nothing better to do than toy with the emotions of my best friend. But then. But then. I'm not trying to make him feel bad. I'm not trying to make myself feel bad. But maybe I shouldn't drink bloody marys and then confess something vaguely like "I love you" and then fall asleep pressed against him. Maybe I shouldn't hold his hand sometimes. Maybe I should tell him that all those nights where I'm awfully vague about my plans? Those nights? Yes? Ohh, yes, I'm dating Someone New.

I'm throwing up my hands while I type which we all know is not at all conducive to forming actual words. I will make sense of this. I will. I will.

Back up

Listening to Ryan Adams these days and jotting down my line up, lining up the men, moving on and weaving a tangled web. Spending my morning talking to The Bartender and caring about him, wanting to sit next to him, to hold his hand, to kiss him and not have to pretend for a moment that it's not exactly what I want. Spending every moment with (oh, pseudonym, don't fail me now!) Mr. Right, Mr. Exactly Right. Mr. Does Everything Right and Loves Me and Wants the Best for Me and Cooks for Me and Rides the Bus with Me and Holds My Hand. Except this scenario takes convincing for me. I don't really want this scenario. And then there is Someone New. There have been dates and it's beginning to feel the same, the line up, the back burner.

The end is near

I smell like someone else in someone else's bed in this other city that is becoming more and more mine. I can hear The Bartender call from my old life in the next room.

In recent developments

Woke up. Thought immediately of The Newest Development. I don't want to liken it to anything, it was its own thing, it had its own moments, but fine, I'll say it: it was a lot like the first date with The Doctor. The Doctor who is a really good guy, who is chivalrous and calls when he says he will and doesn't want to play games (despite me having a mild panic attack daily over him and what'shedoing what'shethinking whyhasn'thecalled).

This new guy, our first date, he held my hand and walked me home. And he's funny. He kept up with my strange humor and winding tangents. Thinking about it, me thinking about my latest love interests, walking to this date with this new man, I was thinking of logic versus spark. It's the spark I want, it's the spark that I feel is necessary, that I had with The Bartender, but with The Bartender, I fear that's all we would have had, no common ground except sometimes: daydrinking. (Which isn't really a foundational common ground if we're splitting hairs here.) So now I'm trying not to focus so much on some damn magical spark and instead on humor, words, attraction, goals. What a novel idea!

This may take some convincing

We touch shoulders. He takes my hand. I kiss his shoulder. Bury my head under his chin while riding the bus. Drink cheap red wine and end up kissing at my kitchen table.

But don't get me wrong. We're just friends.

It's becoming more difficult to even convince myself.

Truth

(Just because I knew I was falling in love with the wrong man didn't mean I wasn't falling in love.)

Keenly aware

I'm not sure how to say this the right way. I don't know how to describe this new understanding within myself, this new part where I have a date with this new guy but I already feel like it's not A Big Deal, where he will merely be for my kissing enjoyment.

This does not make me slutty. This makes me aware.

Testimony

A testament to the words we didn’t say. And him on a pedestal now that I’m here, now that he is just in my imagination, occasionally on my phone. His god-like presence. Me distracting myself with anything, falling into depression. Me setting my alarm for four AM his time so I can call him once he’s off work. Me writing him short letters revealing myself. Giving away the parts where I love him, I don’t say it, but I love him. Me wondering if I should regret not saying I love you at the last moment, but knowing that it wouldn’t have made a difference, I didn’t say it because it didn’t make a difference. I didn’t want to say it because it was my last night. I wanted to say it because I loved him. And I wasn’t sure if I was mixing the two up, I wasn’t sure if it was me or him or time or distance. So I didn’t say it.

The best of intentions

You'd think I could just say it, but I can't. I don't know how to accurately describe this, this space between us. This place where I get stuck. And I can't describe it. I can't tell you a damn thing, because I don't know a damn thing. I don't know what I'm doing. If maybe it's just that I miss home, I miss feeling close to everything I know, everything I love, and now I'm terribly fair away. I don't know how to function in a world this far away. And I love it here, don't get me wrong. Let's not get confused, I love this city. This is where I should be, and yes, maybe I'm still talking myself into it. I am.

So it's confusing to be here and it's my best friend I'm spending all this time with, and the only reason it becomes complicated is because he is him and I am me and there's a history, of course there's a history, and I thought it was all done, I knew I held the cards but I thought it was done. But I think I'm vulnerable and alone, and the talking myself into loving this city only goes so far, it only goes so far.

Sitting on the couch and not leaving the house for an entire day, reading a good book but wondering what he's thinking in the adjoining room and if I'm ruining this, if I will eventually drive him away. If soon enough, he will hate me for the things I do to his mind, for the way I cause him to feel, for my loneliness and his availability. I love him, just not that way. I love him. But I would have to talk myself into being in love with him. And maybe it would come, in time, but I've given it two years already and I'm not sure it's there. I can give it all day all night all year all next year. I've already given it that. I don't think it's time I need.

But I hold his hand and he kisses me. He touches me. He's in a love affair with my hip bone. With both of them. We sit too close together on the bus. Instead of saying I'm sorry, I touch his hand. Press my fingers to his and look him in the eye, rest my head on his shoulder when I shouldn't, imitate his voice and kiss him where his shoulder and arm meet, this place that is mine. I accuse him of stealing my good pen and then ask him soso nicely, since he's going to the kitchen, to get me a glass of water but only two ice cubes please. I pushed my shirt off my shoulder yesterday to remove a stray hair, to scratch an inch, to - anything, and felt his eyes covering every inch of my bare skin.

It's this hero worship that I don't know how to handle. His adoration of me, when he knows it all, and still: adoration. How can he love me this way? How can I not love him this way?

[Practical] matters of the heart

Again. The things we said with our eyes. But what's the point in "I love you" when I knew I would be a thousand miles away the very next day? And how callous. How callous. But this is me. Practicality will always win, and it's useless to love someone in a life I no longer lead. My heart may be breaking, right this moment, but let's please all be practical.

This is my choice. I don't want to lose him to Chicago, but I've made up my mind. It's Chicago I love. He couldn't hold me.

So why am I resenting Chicago for taking me from him? Why am I acting like a jilted lover? Why am I playing passive aggressive mind games with this city?

Repentance

Dear Bartender,

You're making it easy. You're making it easy to forget you. I don't remember the exact way you smelled or how it felt to wake up to you. I can't quite recall that feeling I got with you. I haven't felt it here, I haven't, but I'm forgetting. That feeling? I will not associate with only you much longer. I will move on.

And do you blame me? You don't talk to me. In your eyes, this never had a chance, did it? Did it? Just tell me the truth. Tell me the truth. That this pining, that these sporadic late night phone calls, it's all been in vain, because you never thought it could work. And that's fine. It's just fine. But please let me know. Please don't make me think you would choose me. Choose me over your addictions. Choose me over the here and now.

I made a choice. I moved away. I still wanted you. I still want you.

Predestination

I walked for miles with a stranger last night. Miles of talk. Of exchanging stories. Of subtle glances.

We didn't exchange information. It's up to chance. It's up to the universe.

Raining cats and dogs

That last night, before I flew away, we tried to make it to my car without an umbrella. We stopped under a green awning, kissed. Kissed. Kissed. Isn’t that the point? These moments. These tiny moments. They make a life. This moment, it could have made my whole life. We finally gave up and ran to the car, ran into the twenty-four hour grocery store, ran into his apartment. Toasted to something, to what, I don’t remember. Toasted to being mostly in love. Toasted to fleeting moments. Toasted to living in the moment. Toasted to a life.

A clockwork orange

It's like clockwork: Sunday night. Sunday night and I'm deciding if I know exactly what I'm doing, if it's all premeditated, if I'm a lyingcheatingbitch, or, hey, maybe it's not my fault. I'm confused. Alone. And he won't talk to me. I'm even being logical about it. I don't think it's someone else or that he's bored. I think he's trying to spare us both.

And fine, this is my opinion. What are you going to do, ask him?

So fine, we'll go with my opinion.

And again with the inability to see it for what it is, what it would have become had I stayed. I'm wearing my blinders proud.

For once, for once, I didn't have to talk myself into a damn thing. And now that I'm gone, and it feels like it could have been perfect even if I know I just happened to have left at the exact moment when it was all perfect. It isn't all perfect. It wouldn't have been all perfect. Him not talking is not all perfect.

I'm not sorry and now someone else is factored in, factored in in the most complicated way. In such a way that I can't even make it up. I'm not sorry it happened. I'm not sorry I miss him. I don't wish this all hadn't happened. It's good. It was good. He may be doing what's best now, he may be trying his damnedest to put this behind him, my heart may be breaking, I may be moving on, I may not, but it was worth it regardless. True story: I can be affected this way. It may just be better to be bereft and to at least know I had it good, I felt it, than to be the same. I'd rather feel like hell than feel like nothing at all.

Ex files

Is this the part where I mention the crazy ex keeps texting me? Saying he's happy for me? But still doing what he always does: acting kind of insane and confusing?

Tempting, isn't it?

My first friend in Chicago. It was all going so well. I thought it was going well. Until he kept touching me a beat too long and then I had to wonder. Is it my job to stop this? Is it my job to keep us in the Friends Zone? Is this normal? Is this a given? Is it bound to happen and maybe I should just get used to it?

Why can't I be an upstanding citizen and not be tempted? Temptation reigns supreme. I'm tempted. Fine. I'm tempted.

Love letter, part II

I don't feel strange waking up in my bed in my bedroom in my apartment in Chicago.

I don't miss the life I had.

I do miss him.

One is the loneliest number

I know I'm this far from everything I know. I know I've been living this new life for mere days.

But I've been fine. I've been [strangely] fine.

Until now. Now when he won't return my calls. And sure. It's better this way. It's better. In the long run, this makes sense.

The problem is that navigating this new life, learning all the nuances of this strange place- it pales in comparison to how I feel without him. Changing my life? Not a big deal. Him going mute? I can't pretend. Because it's my heart that is breaking.

Just let me be bereft.

I wish you would've put yourself in my suitcase

It's his bad habits that I'm thinking about, that I know I could never actually live with. He keeps the blinds drawn, doesn't want to see the light of day. Doesn't exercise. Smokes cigarettes from a green box. Has a drinking problem. He won't talk to me.

But I'm sitting here listening to this song that reminds me of him. On repeat. I've lost track of how many times I've heard it.

He is a thousand miles away. He isn't talking to me. He's opinionated to the point of arrogance at times. The way he would look at me. How I could never get close enough to him. Smiling all the time. All my favorite parts of him: his bottom rib, his jawline, his walk. I've run out of reasons why this won't work. It won't work.

I shouldn't have to talk myself out of it.

Going in circles

I'm not so sure what I'm doing here. Trying to prove here. I don't know. I don't know. I'm just reaffirming my patterns, going in circles, missing him so much and now chastising myself for all my indiscretions.

Why do I do this? I'm sitting here, miserable, thinking about all the ways I put myself into situations and then act the way I do: I'm the victim, I can't sleep, I miss him, why would I create a love triangle? Why would I fulfill this prophecy? Why am I writing in circles?

I thought I was learning to live without him. I thought I was learning to not miss him. I thought I could just change my behavior, my patterns, and therefore, my feelings. I thought I was doing it.

I didn't. I'm not.

I still miss him.

Going the distance

He said, "Quit making me fall in love with you from this far away."

Nip it in the bud

I think it’s the opposite of the slow fade. I think The Bartender is trying to cut me out. Which is understandable. It’s understandable. It’s pointless to go around, living my life almost a thousand miles away, wanting him. It’s pointless. Its a moot point. And we both know this. But now he's not talking. He's not talking. This morning, I slept through 4am without a hitch.

So maybe it’s both of us who are becoming accustomed to our separate lives? And maybe I'm bitter again, because it feels like I'm taking all of it -all of the looks and the words and the smilingsmilingsmiling -and just tossing it aside. It doesn't mean anything, now that I'm here and he's there.

But it does mean something. It is significant. And I miss him terribly. It shouldn't be so easy to forget. I don't want to forget. But I suppose time works the way it does and its inevitable. I'm here. He's there. It’s a moot point.

One and only

During our usual 4am conversation, he said, "You're ruining my game. I just think about you." So I said, "You're ruining my game. Millions of options, but only: you."

Only. Him.

Day One

Woke up at 4am as per the usual with The Bartender's schedule. At 4am he comes over, I go over, and we stay up, talking, giggling, kissing. But. This morning. We texted sweet nothings instead of whispering them.

Lucky break

I never could sleep well next to him, and it had nothing to do with being uncomfortable, and everything to do with not getting over the thought I can't believe my luck.

Same day delivery

I keep telling myself that its good, its good, that leaving now means leaving when its good, when its perfect, and nothing can touch us.

But I keep telling him I want to pack him up and ship him along with the rest of my belongings.

Amorous

No words. Only: enamored.

The sun also rises

I felt myself fall a little bit in love with him while the sun rose this morning.

To my own detriment

What are the chances? In a city this small, of course I'm running into him (thus why I'm leaving a city this small), but why now? Or maybe, of course now. He's available. I'm leaving. I'm seriously interested in someone else despite the leaving. And that's when I pause. Would I? I'm seriously interested in someone, nothing is defined, mostly because it can't. It can't be defined when I will be a thousand miles away in mere days.

But the question remains, would I? Will I? Because I am leaving and circumstances are what they are, they are what they are, nothing is defined, would I kiss someone else? Would I kiss him? Will I kiss him? Will I do my damnedest to see how it all plays out? Will I pretend like its out of my hands?

And then, if I do, will I fall over myself into guilt?

Why am I doing this? I am leaving! Why am I considering these possibilities? Even if I do, if I kiss this other man, it won't matter, because both of these men won't matter, because in a week, I won't be here.

Game on

What is the difference between having great conversation and having great sex? What is the common denominator? Whywhywhy do I like this one man so much on paper, over drinks, over lunch, but not anywhere else? Why can't I equate this great conversation into great everything? Why is it with The Bartender, why is it, that the conversation is fine, the bits where I'm not giggling, that is. Its fine. We're not talking major issues here. But it feels different, and it doesn't matter what we're talking about.

This blows so much out of the water. Does it even matter, really? Is fate just going to do what it wants? It doesn't matter that I like one man, that I think he's witty and charming and intelligent, because I'm not going to feel anything. Leave me alone with The Bartender for five minutes and just you see. You will see.

How much am I actually responsible for here? Do I have control over anything? Do I have control over the fact that I found myself playing the 82% game and beating my own personal record this evening? Sitting at a table, scoring 100%. I'm too good at my own games, it seems.

Happily ever after

We're curled up together, about to doze off, when he asks (between all the giggling and tickling, of course), "Do you fall for someone easily?"

And can we get a show of hands here? Can we all attest to the fact that this is very strange behavior on my part? All this cuddling. All this smiling.

As a matter of fact, no, I do not fall easily. I am the most abrasive, guarded, mistrusting woman you will ever meet. So no. I don't fall easily.

And don't worry, I'm leaving. I'm leaving in a week. We both know it. We both know its necessary. And maybe I'm stretching it, but- we're both disappointed. I found someone. Someone. Not even someone. Him.

I get up in the middle of the night to go to his house after he gets off work just to sleep next to him for a few hours. This morning, I got out of bed at 6am to go to his house, we watched "The Dark Knight" at dawn and then went back to bed a 8am, with me getting up shortly thereafter to work. It has nothing to do with alarm clocks or movies or even what was said, just that its not yet dawn and I'm wrapped up in his arms on the sidewalk before I walk into his house, realizing an hour after I arrive that somehow we're holding hands, that I didn't even notice, it just happened, it was meant to happen, I couldn't stop it if I wanted. Its the going to sleep and then just talking, talking about me leaving and him asking if I fall in love easily and me having a moment, no, just a second, where I worried I'd cry. How silly is that? I'm infatuated with him, I am. I'm leaving at a point where we can both go about our lives, that this won't matter as much later -oh, who I am kidding? You're never going to hear the end of The Bartender, the way this is going.

I guess, well, its this: if I stayed any longer, I would fall right into love. I would. Right now, me thinking about him, me typing about him, me planning to go for a run in a few minutes, me unloading the dishwasher, me searching for my umbrella: I'm falling in love with him. If I get out now, if I leave when I leave, I'll be in Chicago, just searching for my umbrella, no ulterior motive.

I may just grow to hate umbrellas and forever associate them with me losing this. Am I losing this? Is this something to lose? Or is this shelf life what makes it great? Because we're never going to fight about my drinking or his smoking habit or how I can't stand his going out every night or how I won't ever shut up. We will never have this. We can't. We get this brief, fairytale bit. The beginning of happily ever after. Until I fly away.

Its all in the details

I'm too busy giggling to write anything significant. Too busy pressed up against him, too busy smiling like a fool, too busy wondering what he's doing and holding his hand, to realize how natural it all feels.

Handle with care

I certainly didn't sleep well. I kept waking up, touching him. Kissing him. Getting closer. Him pulling me into him. Touching his chest. Finding his hand. His beard. His hair. His arms. I couldn't keep my hands to myself. I also couldn't stop giggling. Looking at him, looking at me.

This chemistry. How long has it been since I've had this kind of chemistry? Over a year. Yes, now that I think about it. Me waking up next to him, instead of cringing, instead of beelining for the door, I couldn't get close enough.

This is so unlike me.

Wake up call

I woke up.

He was there.

I panicked.

But then realized: its him. Its good. I'm good.

Sleepless nights

I didn't feel well. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't sleep.

He sent me a text message. I was still awake.

He came over at 4:30am with some meds and a back rub. I finally fell asleep pressed against him at 6am.

Love from the Windy City

The thing is, we're both in our own worlds. Me drinking red wine and planning my escape, him getting high and content with the here and now, literally.

I'm leaving, I'm happy to say. I will very soon be writing from the confines of my apartment in Chicago. So the Bartender and me? This is nothing. While exercising today (where I get my best ideas), I realized that if I stayed here, I'd make new friends, I'd fall in love with the Bartender, despite me recognizing all his bad habits right this very second.

I haven't been in love in a very long time.

I'd rather have Chicago. (Or maybe I'd just rather have me. Just-- me.)

(And it pains me to say this, right this very second. I'd rather be in love. I'd rather love someone who is all wrong for me. I'd rather stay here and love him. I'd rather spend my time cuddling and smiling like a fool and not behind a computer, ranting and writing and working. Working. I'm leaving. I'm leaving and the plans have been made, I am going, and of course, right this very second, I could be falling in love. Instead, I'm searching for cheap flights.)

Truth be told

Its like vodka was truth serum, and suddenly I couldn't stop telling him about how there are plenty of other men. There are plenty of other men with whom I could spend an evening, go on a date, kiss. But he's the one who left his socks on my floor and -dammit! I don't want their socks on my floor. I want his socks.

"Flying Shoes" and other matters of the heart

Oh, no. I had a good date with the Bartender. Fireworks. Chemistry. Chemistry on every level. I'm not used to this. I don't know what to do with good conversation and good kissing. He walked me to my bike. But didn't kiss me. We're at that part where we cant get enough, where it may look like something slightly inappropriate, us kissing on the street. Its new and good and we cant get enough. May offend others. Can't stop touching. I grabbed his hand to get his attention, to show him something, and he commented about this hand to hand combat, before realizing I was showing him something. Before realizing I got self conscious. And paranoid. And scared. And worried that he was not interested at all in my hand. Only: my hips. My breasts. My lips my neck. I felt myself erect that wall right then, right on that street. Undressing me is one thing, him taking my hand as we walk down the street is worlds away from my understanding.

Cuddle buddy

I guess the jig is up. I shall call him Bartender, in keeping with the work-related pseudonym. Also, this story sounds quite tawdry (more so than usual, that is) without this knowledge.

The Bartender texted me when he got off work, early in the morning. I had been asleep for hours (you'd be surprised how much sleep I manage to squeeze in around all the kissing company I keep). One thing lead to another, and I left my house at 3:30 in the morning just to go over and cuddle with him.

I've got it bad.

A world away

I can't get a damn thing done. I keep snapping back from another world, a world in which all there is, is how good he smells.

One, two, three times a lady

I can't even make this up. (Wait, have I said that before?) I wanted to meet the new one, the one who still doesn't have a pseudonym because I just can't decide what fits him best and maybe, maybemaybemaybe its something important, and this pseudonym really means something. Because he really means something.

Nah. Now I'm just being dramatic.

So I planned to meet the new one for a drink. But then he was taking too long, and I found myself meeting The Editor for a drink. But immediately worried it could get weird. But thought the new one wasn't going to show regardless.

The new one showed.

But not before The Musician also moseyed in.

Have vs have not

Why do I concern myself so much with this men business? Why does every word out of my mouth have something to do with a man whom I want who wants me who is ignoring me who I am ignoring? Why do I devote mass quantities of free time writing it to death? Why do I talktalktalk about it all of the time? I am my own person. I am not defined by a man or a lack of a man. I am my own person. I am my own person. And saying that, still, sure, I am affected by these men. These minute experiences. I’ve come to realize that it’s the tiny, inconsequential experiences that make up this existence that is life. Life: it’s in the details. My current bitter attitude towards the opposite sex didn’t happen over night, it didn’t happen due to one huge incident, it happened during the course of these tiny events. These tiny non-events. Somewhere between having drinks and having sex and no longer having a reason to call. Have, have not.

Attachment issues

The problem here is that I feel myself becoming attached, I feel myself enjoying this too much, and I'm worried that its just the same as it always is.

More than words

"All I know is when you smile I believe in everything."

Yo La Tengo

Excuse all these italics in advance

Why can't I be a little vulnerable? Why can't I just hope that maybe he feels the same? Why do I have to tell myself that its not a big deal, that its okay, act flippant, act like I don't care? Tell myself I will not wonder what might have been? Could it just be that I'm vulnerable (but just for a second)? Can I just like someone? And hope to hell that maybe he feels exactly the same way?

The planets aligned

Dress I don't wear often.

Spritzing perfume.

Obsessing over the details.

My stubborn independence: No, no, I'll come to you.

Running into The Musician upon leaving my house (he was visiting my roommates).

Certainly glad my stubborn independence won this time.

Jinx you're it

I can't say anything. I'm too scared to jinx it.

We've said it all before

Maybe I do have a few things to say. Maybe there have been a couple, several, fine, four instances in the last few days. Some old boy coming into play each day. But doesn't it sound stale? Trite? We've heard it all before:

The Musician and running into him on Sunday and he kept touching the small of my back while apologizing for his prior behavior, The Editor and his utter devotion to me and whywhywhy can't I just reciprocate? But I can't. I can't. And I can't talk myself into it and I shouldn't have to. And then Whats-His-Name, I saw him too. And we were trying not to be awkward and we said "hey" but there was no eye contact but also, also, I wondered if we were trying too hard. Was he looking at me? Are we friends? Are we not allowed to be cordial? Oh, the rules! He has a girlfriend and suddenly I can't wave politely?! And I can't give too many details to even you, you three faithful followers (haha, I jest. Three is a great leap of faith on my part.), because I fear his identity being found out. I do. There. I've said it. I'm throwing up my hands (very counterproductive to typing, mind you) and looking frustrated and incredulous that we all can't just be done with this.

But fine, you three fictitious readers, fine, he's cute. He's really cute.

And more on The Man With The Sombrero later. I'm brooding. Brooding because I want to see him but don't want to come across as desperate but wanting to hang out but not wanting to ask him because technically I asked him to do something yesterday. And ball is in his court. Am I'm completely insane.

I sober miss you often

Yes. I told that to the Doctor.

Damn you, Doctor!

In my defense: he started it. Last night, he told me: I'm in California, and miss you.

And then I told him that I'm here and wearing heels and thanks because I was then thinking of him.

And then he started flirting.

And then I asked if he was drunk (it being only 7pm in California and all did throw me off). And it seems he was. But then he said: I miss you at lots of sober times, too.

I miss you at lots of sober times, too.

Sex appealing

Thats what it is. Thats the part I can't talk myself into. Thats where the line is drawn. It doesn't matter that I think he's fascinating or funny or wealthy (yeah, yeah, sometimes I'm in a gold digging mood). He can be everything I've ever dreamed of, be just perfect on paper, but I can't fake attraction.

I've got it! I've got it! I can't talk myself into it. That's the part. I can't rationalize it.

Because, confession: I kissed the friend. The one with the sombrero who I shouldn't like. And it was good. I didn't have to tell myself I liked it. That I wanted it. Because I wanted it. I liked it. I didn't want to stop. Couldn't maintain conversation because we kept getting distracted kissing. Kissing kissing kissing.

(You know that part? That part where you fall into each other and can't get enough of each other and the chemistry is so good and the kissing is so good and you giggle and you can't stop touching just his hand just his hand maybe his neck maybe his hair maybe just the outline of his jaw. And he smells that good smell and is tall and yes, I like beards and now I'm thinkingthinkingthinking about him and smiling a little. And wanting to see him but wanting to play it cool. It could be nothing it could be something- what if its something?!)

Insanity

The words, all these words, are beginning to sound trite. These themes, these recurring patterns. Its sort of getting old, don't you think?

Me in a bar.

Me in the street.

Me in a bookstore.

Me at work.

Me meeting a man. Every time.

Ride it out

Is fascination reason enough to stay along for this ride? I am utterly in awe of this one man, think he is just, yes, fascinating, but is that enough? Am I going to eventually be more than fascinated? Because fascination is one thing. A relationship... is another.

Fake it til you make it...?

Is that really how it works sometimes?

If I'm doubting it, why would it work? I know its not all magical- relationships- but I also live by the rule of not talking myself into anything.

But I do miss his company. I do miss the things we did together. And I'm not following a man, and I told him that, but I sure miss him. If he were not a he, but a female, this wouldn't be a question. But because he is him, he is himself, himself who I have had two years of history, because of this, it makes it feel complicated. Is it though? Or do I just miss his friendship?

And this is news ...how?

I'm interested in the attention. I'm interested in this man's attention, even though I don't really think I'm interested in him.

(I'm going to do the thing where I act aloof but am secretly curious and then curiosity leads to drinking to kissing to waking up and repeatedly repeatedly calling myself an idiot repeatedly calling myself an idiot for ruining another friendship for making this town even smaller for kissing another boy and knowing that the list is getting bigger but options, those things? Smaller.)

Sunday funday

I'm up on a Sunday morning with no hangover, no bad decisions lingering in my bed. I certainly don't think this is evolution, don't you worry, but I do wonder if I really am making an effort to reel it in. To slow this adventure down.

Adventure or not, its fun sometimes, and sometimes, times like now, I want a break. I'm nearing the brink, if you haven't noticed. I'm at the point of not even calling a man back about a date because I may just be over it. Over dating. Over the games. Over the charade. So let me take a break here. Let me sit by myself for a moment.

Revel in Sunday productivity. Until brunch, that is.

Prim and proper

Its the guilt. Guilt gets me to text men back, to give someone the benefit of the doubt, to make an effort when I don't want to. Emily Post has ruined me. That bitch.

The neutral third party

Was he Swiss? Its too late to ask. Its been too late to ask.

Its not fulfilling, all this. All this kissing. Its wearing on me. I've seen better days. Its fun at the moment. Then. I come home. I sit at my computer. I write. I rant.

I let him hold my hand and kissed him and hoped, hoped hoped hoped, that someone saw us and thought we were in love.

But truthfully, I couldn't wait to get home and write. I would rather write. Rant. (You say potato, I say ...write.) I didn't for a second really want to hold his hand. I wanted the illusion.

I feel bad for the poor man whose hand I actually want to hold (whenever we may meet). I may never let go.

Take a hint

I've had it! I.Have.Had.It. I had a date with The Professor, and it was going well until he turned into a cheapskate and just plain cocky. And so then he called me, twice, and I responded to him that I am especially busy and I would get back to him about plans.

Of course I'm not getting back to him about plans.

But he continues, having left me another message a few days ago. And I'm in such a place right now, I'm in a such a fervor, such a state of absolute madness, that I feel as if I should let him know the truth about why I don't want to see him. He won't take a subtle hint? How about I tell him I'm just not that into you? Let's not beat around the bush. Let's not.

The best part of waking up

And why am I thinking about it? Why am I thinking about another man who will never happen? Probably because he will never happen. But I'm thinking about him. And it is a bit frustrating.

And we all get it. We all know. I only want him because I can't have him. Because he is not within reach, literally speaking.

Another of my [in]famous could have would have should haves. Knowing me and knowing that I only want it because I can't have it. I can't imagine willingly waking up next to someone. I think it's the quiet, the time alone, that gets to me. But the morning, the morning gets me to my senses. I don't want to wake up next to someone. Not just yet.

How dreamy

I had a dream about The Man of My Dreams (who we all know is not the man of my dreams because he never actually called me). It was one of those dreams that are kind of unbearable, because you wake up, and it's still your life. Nothing has changed.

How to fight loneliness

So there is a thing: its called loneliness, and it attacks the moment you think it won't. I've built my guard up, I've reasoned with it. I've given it the cold shoulder and told it to fuck off. But tonight: tonight at four AM and he's calling a cab and literally, as he's on the phone, giving my street address so he can be picked up: it's starts to rain. And then: pour. And I'm wearing a robe and not knowing how I should act. Because typically, this isn't a problem. But when a man goes out of his way to get away from me (when I know it's not a big deal, we've talked about it, we know this doesn't mean anything), it feels like a big deal. Its a blow.

I'm listening to the rain right this second and knowing that he'd rather be stranded in it than spend any longer next to me.

And this is why: this is why I keep my guard up. This is why I don't believe that you care what I say or the things I do. It's because I know: you are cheating on your girlfriend. I've never been that girl. Well, that I know. As we were lying in a state of undress, he told me I have someone.

Isn't there always someone? Or something? I'm used to the something. I'm used to men not really being interested, and me telling myself that its not me, its them. That I'm plenty interesting. That my guard, my anger, my bitterness- its refreshing. Men aren't used to dealing with such a mistrustful nutcase. It makes sense.

But tonight. Tonight validates it all. Everything is justified. Because we're in my bed, and he says I have a girlfriend. (And the thing is, we're not talking about girlfriends, secrets, bad behavior. We're just ...talking.)

So I'm just an [the] other woman. Another person he left. And her? I'm sick thinking about it. She is just another person he did this to, without much thought until it was a done deal. I felt bad for her, but worse for me. For my loneliness. For me knowing that I would still allow him to sleep next to me, even if I didn't let him touch me.

This human sadness. This humanity. It's such a divide. I keep telling myself that I'm okay with all of this, that I'm not that interested, but tonight, tonight I got a wake up call. Tonight. I'm usable. I'm dispensable.

And while he meant nothing to me, while I wasn't interested in knowing him all that well or having some kind of meaningful connection, I'm still awake. I'm still awake. Most people are just now waking up. And I can't sleep. I can't sleep over this insignificance.

Neither here nor there

The problem with sleeping next to someone? Waking up next to someone.

Return to sender

I'm deleting texts in my phone. Deleting texts, noticing a pattern: many men, all of varying degrees of interest, including: the Doctor.

I deleted every man around him.

Not him. Not him at all.

Magical thinking

Are we just putting off the inevitable? Am I going to realize one of these days that it's not all perfect? Because I can see us, I can see us right now: happy. He knows me. He does. He knows it all: from our highly inappropriate online chats during "work," to us finding each other despite my then-boyfriend. To him seeing me cry one night in the midst of our affair. To our argument that we always have where he doesn't say it, but I call him on it: I tell him he wants to be with me, and he denies it. To it being the best sex of my life. To us meeting each others' significant others. To us meeting for adventures, never quite knowing what we will find, but knowing it will be good. To him being the only man who can keep up with me, who thinks I'm strange, but goes with it. Who listens to my TLC playlists and laughs, but not at me.

So why does it still feel like I have to talk myself into it?

Is it time I need? Or is the magic, is that elsewhere? And will it come?

The digital age

Recently, instead of giving a man my number, I gave him a book.

The less I say the more I say

I don't have to convince myself. I don't have to tell myself. I don't have to think that if I give it time, if we just have time to get to know each other, if I learn to give up vodka, if I think it through, I will want this.

I don't want this.

I don't want your authority or your money or your scene. I want your friendship.

And you? You, Doctor, who is thousands of miles away? You? I want you. We had a shelf life and now we're honest but it's honesty that I don't know, that I've never had, and probably it's because you're far away and we had a shelf life -and because it's tortured. But maybe it's also serving the purpose of telling me, of letting me know: I shouldn't have to tell myself.

No love lost

It's my space I want. My bed and my time and my thoughts. I'm not ready to share.

And I will think life and relationships to death and schedule it in any way I can. I know good and well that it's not so neat, no so organized. But if it's just me, if I go it alone, I will never be wrong. I will never fight or feel sheepish or feel protective or jealous.

I will always win.

(And yes, I'm purposely not stating the obvious: that while I won't feel jealous, I won't feel love.)

Words for everything

Writing is my thing. It's my thing. I write everyday. So it says something, it means something, that for days, for days I've been sitting here.

Trying to find words.

Imma close my tab

It was all going so well.

Until we split the tab and he refused to tip.

Just the middleman

It makes me crazy. To know that you and you are talking, but not to me. You two talk to each other now. You no longer need me in the middle. It comes easily.

Lying eyes

I'm judging myself.

But projecting it on anyone else. On the nearest person. On anyone I can point a finger. It's not you, it's me. It really is me.

But I will tell myself that you're judging my actions and decisions like you even really care. Because let's face it: you don't care. We're all so in our own heads, so in our own decisions; we're so obsessed about what we did/said/looked like, and you know the truth? Everyone is so obsessed with what he did/said/looked like that he could care less about something you're obsessing over. No one noticed. No one cares.

No one is judging me the way I am. No one cares.

Look me in the eye

I can't seem to figure out where I've left my moral compass. I left it around here somewhere, I know I did, and while I'm looking for it, while I'm frantically searching, I keep looking over my shoulder, paranoid that someone is on to me. Judging me. Because I've obviously misplaced my moral marker, and now I just know that everyone is talking. Everyone knows. Everyone can see what I'm doing, acting like it doesn't phase me, and they're whispering. I'm walking into a room; they're averting their eyes.

Somebody to somebody

Why does there always have to be someone? Why do I always have Nobody waiting in the wings? Nobody to me but Somebody to someone, one day. But this present Nobody, for me, he's just a place filler. An in between. How does it always work out that way? And is it just me? I worry it's just me.

Expired

Why is the Doctor allowed to be important? Why is that few months of dates turned into fighting turned into nothing so revered? Why am I stamping it "important in the grander scheme of things?"

The only thing that made it different from all the other short-lived affairs (you know there are too many to count), is the expiration date we knew it had. We knew it would end. We knew we wouldn't have time to internally combust. Is that why we treated each other with such respect (now, is that why now, we send each other thoughtful messages?)? Is that why we got over the petty issues? Because we knew we didn't have the time to even consider them? So why not enjoy it?

Really? The shelf-life kept it cordial?

Edited

The Editor. Back. He's back.

What is that? I remember all too well what happened, how it got weird, how I knew it wasn't right. But I'm still intrigued. I'm interested.

But aware.

Flinging

I met him, and then again the very next morning, snuggled up in my bed. Oh, hello.

And let's not get confused: this is new. This flinging. But it's also: honest. I'm trying very hard to be honest with myself and my decisions. To know that this is a weekend fling. To know this is one of those tiny nuances that create The Big Picture. This nuance that adds up, that desensitizes me to further nuances; to further flings. As long as I'm honest and know that it is what it is, it is what it is, I'm alright.

Let's capture it, shall we? Alone on my porch people watching smoking Indian cigarettes my cat clothes clothes who needs clothes? Asleep. Then: awake. Awake. Should I cuddle should I keep my distance let me try both methodologies. And no cuddling. No closeness. Alright. I'm awake. He's sleeping. He's sleeping.

I gave him my copy of White Noise because I thought he'd enjoy it. I left a message and signed my name, and hoped that this makes me cool and collected. But does this inscription actually make me narcissistic to the point that I must leave a tangible mark on his life? To the point that I did the thing again, the leaving my entire name instead of just my first initial, because I worry I would be easier to forget with just the initial.

Obviously, I need more flings.

Metaphorically speaking

I am busy. I have things to do.

But I want to throw it all away. I want to toss aside my plans and wander around town, flirting shamelessly, kissing this new one. But I have things to do tonight (red wine and Sex and the City are legitimate plans!). I have plans.

Metaphor for my life?

Eye of the beholder

Maybe my changing perspective does have to do with men, and how my [former] natural thought process was one in which a man would change my life. That love would change my life.

I must change my life.

What a fascinating specimen

I'm trying my hardest to sound eloquent, to use some decorum, to be vague but still get the idea across. But what is this, my quasi-fascination with a man who I don't really want to be seen with in public? (When do I want to be seen with him, you ask? Read between my prim and appropriate lines, please.) So I ran into him last night, and secretly wondered if he was sort of stalking me, then shied away when he touched me, then didn't really want to talk to him, and wanted him to leave, didn't want anyone to know I know him, but still, I'm fascinated.

Red hat society

Happy hour lasted 'til 3am. But before that, I kept drunkenly telling the friend who I shouldn't like, yes, him, I kept telling him that I hated his hat and that I would gladly bring him a sombrero next I saw him.

Niceties

I came home last night to find the Musician in my house. Second night in a row we're running into each other, except this time? Well, he was at my house. So that doesn't count as much, seeing as though I spend a good deal of time in my own home. But welcome, hello, so glad to see you yet again when I wasn't expecting to. I'm certainly glad I don't have another man with me this time. Perhaps I'll pick up your bass-playing friend next? Oh, do you have a cellist friend? Perhaps a xylophonist? I hear they're big these days.

After my initial annoyance, it became easy. Almost, dare I say, friendly. Like old pals. Sharing stories and telling jokes, we ended up making drinks for the gang. (Oh yeah, the gang. I'm hip.) He played piano, I played nice. It became surprisingly nonchalant. It's been so convoluted, so complex and hard to read with us, this whole un-thing, but last night had a pleasant easiness. I do hope it continues in this fashion, that perhaps we can put it all behind us, that we can start afresh, be friends and run into each other and it won't be weird, it won't be weird. It feels pretty good the way it is. I know you and you know me and you play some mean piano, and sure, I'll play nice. I'll play nice.

Extremely close

Last night went something like this:

A scene in a crowded bar, a small group sitting in a round booth:

"Hey random guy I've met before. Going well. Yeah? Good to see you again. Blah blah blah, not a big deal, no I'm not taking any crap from you, so there, so there! Why do you want my number? Ohhh, just to send me a mean but funny text? Alright. Let's be friends."

Enter stage right: The Musician.

"Oh hey Musician, this isn't awkward. Glad to see you. No, it's fine that you haven't called. Not a big deal. I feel a little sheepish about the whole pity text thing, but as long as we pretend it never happened, I'll be fine. So. So. You're good? Oh, do you know my newest friend here? Allow me to introduce you - what? Y'all know each other? Y'all are in a band together?"

This town I live in? Terrifyingly small. I'm not sure how much longer I can stand it.

Like a bad habit

I am setting myself up for failure. My newest visual interest? No. No. No. Red flags are all there. I barely even know this man, he has been an acquaintance for a year or so, but I know enough to know to not. To not even start this. He's too much like me, shares too many of my bad traits. I can already predict the outcome, the turbulent end, before I even give it a beginning.

Oh, and thanks for bringing that up. Thanks. We all know I'm a self-sabotager, looking to destroy anything in my path. Friendships, my favorite bar, my testament to doing the right thing. The right thing right now would be to tuck this away, to not take him up on his offer to stop by on Saturday, to relinquish this urge to talk to him before then, to obsess over the details, to know that he knows and that I know and want to say it, want to say it: has anyone in the room not noticed the sexual tension here?

He's playing hard to get. I will not give in to his game.

What I wish I could say

I was thinking about all the bigger questions en route home, like, why did I wear my rainboots? they're really annoyingly impractical right now, I surely hope I don't get mugged by someone with a penchant for ladies in rainboots and bright orange raincoats, and of course, obviously- 6'5"? Nuh uh.

Nuh uh.

The weakness is me

I would never tell you that I think you’re weak for being in love. For being vulnerable. I can’t be vulnerable. I can’t. I put my guard up. I put it up and I keep it up. I don’t want anyone in here. I don’t want anyone to know. I don’t want to tell my secrets. I don’t want to give myself away. Piece by piece, I would be giving myself to someone. Giving myself to someone when I’ve never thought it could work. I’ve never met a man with whom I thought it could work. It could work for a few months. It could work for a year or so. But I’m going to hate you and distance myself from you and leave you on a Tuesday morning. I’m going to blindside you. So what’s the point?

Another bullet dodged

Man of my dreams?

He hasn't called. Pretty sure this means he's not the man of my dreams.

Signed, sealed, delivered

This is not me. This isn't me! I'm logical and level headed (hey, hey! Stop laughing. Stop! So I sound crazy sometimes. Sometimes my writing makes me sound like an insane, obsessed, sex-crazed teenager. Sometimes. Sometimes...). In my work, in my life, in all facets outside of relationships, outside of the opposite sex, I like to think I am mostly sane. Mostly coherent. Pulled together. But.

The crazy is coming out. The madness. Suddenly, The Entire Package, suddenly, I know he's not going to call. Because why would he? We met, we had great conversation, but truthfully, I just assumed he was interested in a relationship. Because ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am.

What? you ask.

But if he doesn't call, well, then that means he doesn't have it. He's not The Entire Package. I’ll try not to add him to the collective Men I Wish I Never Met. I’ll try not to take it personally. Why would I take it personally? I don’t know what’s going on in his life. This has nothing to do with me. I met him once. One time and I’m taking his avoidance as a testament to my worth. My value.

However, one time and I’m interested in him enough to take it personally. One time and I left before it got heated; I left before I could be foolish, I left the ball in his court. I like him. I alluded to this. I like him. I’m interested enough to be a bit taken aback that he hasn’t called. I’m interested enough to be mentally preparing for letdown. To not let it get to me. I’m distanced already; I’m angry but pretending not to be. I’m offended but acting nonchalant. Like I didn’t expect any different. Because in my experience, I shouldn’t expect any different.

I’m writing this and sounding like a maniac, and all the while I’m also thinking about how I can’t even remember what he looks like. We had good conversation, but what exactly did we talk about? What was said? What looks were exchanged? Was he tall enough?

But maybe I’m saying this because I’m proving to myself that it doesn’t matter. That my feelings aren’t hurt. I will not let this man hurt my feelings. I will not. It was nothing. It was kissing. And kissing doesn’t kill. Why don’t I follow my own rules? Why?

Man of my dreams

It was The Entire Package.

All of it.

I can't shut up about it even though I think I should hold it close, keep it to myself, not shout it from the rooftops. It's more precious if it's close to me. If I don't tell anyone. If I leave out the part where all of my feelings suddenly feel trite and cliched and done before. If suddenly my life, my writing, sounds straight out of "Love, Actually." If my bitterness has ebbed. If I'm smiling like a fool. If I'm sleep deprived and my lips feel swollen and tender because of the kissingkissingkissing. (You know that feeling? That look you get? Your lips are red and puffy and you wander around replaying the cause. You wander around in a bit of a daze, daydreaming about all that kissing, all that newnessclosenesstouchingslowfast can'tgetenoughravenousmagic. You know.)

I can't seem to contain myself and want, no, need to describe the magnitude. Need to use trite phrases and be forgiven, be cut some slack, because that kiss? That first kiss with him? I didn't know it could be like that. I didn't know it could feel that way.

Me. The heartless, sarcastic girl who can't shut up, can't stop ranting about the injustices in the world (read: how much I hate/can't trust/have issues with men)- I couldn't talk. The kiss. And then: nothing. I couldn't come back with a sarcastic comment. Couldn't let my feelings show. Couldn't speak. Couldn't speak.

There was something there.

And today, his name is on my lips. On my tender, red lips. I'm gushing. I'm gushing. I can't keep it to myself. I can't stop it. I can't let it go. I can't stop the thoughts. The thoughts of him. Of how perhaps he's just my type. That mental checklist I have? That one where I can see a man and know if it's even worth it, because that checklist is specific. And this boy, this boy, I'm checking boxes. It's looking good. I'm being trite and checking boxes and wanting thinking talking. He is on my lips. He is in my head.

Oh, it was nothing

I'm better as the tortured version of myself. Picturing The Doctor here with me, with my friends, celebrating and drinking on the water, him touching me, him being mine, I can't stand it. Because I don't want that. I don't want the touching and the non-wandering eye. I don't want strings and reasons.

I want to be tortured. I want to be flamboyant and spiteful and angry and tortured.

And now, us, its being turned into a thing. A thing that it never was. Why are we doing this? Why do we occasionally send each other sweet, thoughtful text messages just to say hi? Just to say something made me think of you how are you? We're acting like it was something. It was nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Keeping the faith

Why do I let it get to me? Why do I want to assault people for silly inconsiderate coincidences? She didn't mean it I keep telling myself. But if that bitch so much as fucking looks at me I'll flip my shit. That doesn't add up. My anger at this innocent bystander.

My anger at drunk girls.

My anger at myself.

Am I acting the part? No. I can't even continue this thought process. I'm just angry. I am angry.

There was an incident. And without giving too many details, without divulging names and places and feelings, let's just say: My best friend. Moved out of town. Came back. Surprise! Except he'd been back for days. And then he was ...biting.

And like that I've lost all faith in men. Like that. One swift blow. Everything is affirmed. Every man who didn't call me back. Every man who acted like he cared. Every man I pass on the street.

I can't even look at him. I can't even look at him on the street. Because you know what? I'm convinced he will never see past the exterior. The part where I can be undressed and touched and talked into and walked home and not walked home and let me be a pseudonym please and let me kiss you just let me kiss you and this isn't something I do and you're beautiful no you're hot, so, so hot but by the way: I have some kind of excuse that will stop this. I have a reason. It's beyond my control. But I will leave you. I will not stay. I will not stay. I will leave you.

But for good reason.

It's not you. It's for a good reason.

(Job family fucked up mindset we're-not-in-love I-think-you're-slutty you-drink-too-much you-work-too-much I don't like all those polo shirts you wear you look like a douchebag.

Oh, wait. That was me. Mostly. Polo shirts aside, that was me.)

Playing defense

Is it inevitable? To revisit and revise and play it again? I caved under the pressure one of the woodsmen was applying, I conceded to a drink. So we drank. And I had not eaten (thus the story of my life: forgetting that eating bit). I was composed, yes, I do a good job at composure, but I was chatty. Chatty chatty chatty. And frank. Those two never go well together when you're meeting a man you haven't seen in a year. And all this was his initiation. It was because of his persistence.

I've come to realize that I'm perpetually playing defense. I'm constantly on alert and I don't easily trust a man. Even as I'm writing this I'm thinking of one man whom I trust. There is no one man. There is no one. So this defense in mind, I wanted to subtly pick his brain. Subtly understand why he felt the sudden desire to contact me. And then the touching. (Who is being subtle here? Me or him?) He was subtly touching me. And after all that vodka (read: two. Food should have come into play, obviously.), I didn't mind his hand on the small of my back.

However, the honesty minded. And so then I had to call him on it. I had to tell him that he wasn't being very suave, that I knew what he was doing, but why was he doing it? Why? Don't touch the small of my back like you know me like you're allowed like you are interested in what I'm saying like you'll still want to talk to me in the morning like I'll still want to talk to you in the morning. Just don't.

Calling all applicants

I can't even keep up. These men coming out of nowhere. Out of everywhere. Every man I have ever met, ever looked at, ever discarded, has found me. Has tracked me down. Wants to "reconnect." Wants to say hello. Wants to buy me a drink.

What is this? I keep thinking it'll stop, it'll peter out, but it has not. Men I haven't talked to in literally over ten years (I didn't even think I was old enough yet to say that!) are now finding me. Howhowhow. Why? Why is my name forming on the lips of all of these men?

(And you may think this is my ego and my vanity and that I'm secretly so super psyched, but really, I'm not. I'd prefer them to stay where they are. I'd prefer them to tone it down. Keep their emailing and their texting and drink offerings to themselves. I'm taking ideas for a blanket response to all of this unwanted communication. Please apply here.)

What's left behind

Did you ever lose something to someone? After all is said and done, after it's all done, he still has that street, that song, that winter. That dress, that drink that he always ordered from that bar, that state that he went to without you but now its his by default. What did he see while he was there? What did he think?

Why would I give a man an entire state? Why have I given men entire years?

The Doctor took "Home" by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. "Jesus, Etc" by Wilco. I hear either one and I get this feeling. A knotted stomach aching right where I can't reach it I can't help it I wish it would just go. Even while I'm doing something else and said song comes on, I get a feeling before I am cognizant of why. I get a feeling of things that are his. That song, that memory, its his. So why won't he just take it? Why won't he just let me be?

But. I'm taking Wilco back. I'm taking it, he can't have it.

May cause side effects

Because I texted him the not-so-pitiful text, because I have been put to shame, because I have to back off or else aggravate the situation, he has the upper hand. I cannot handle this. Why won't he text me? Why won't he text me?

I found myself stumbling ("stumbling") upon some video clips of him playing (being a musician and all), and stared like a swooning school girl (trite wording, apologies, but let's face it, this entire thought process is trite, this entire blogpost is trite.).

The only reason I'm doing such ridiculous things is because I no longer have the upper hand. I feel out of control of the situation. This is my reaction to not being in control. I gave too much of myself, and cannot retract it, cannot fix it, can only wait.

Wishing and hoping

I texted The Musician after a few drinks. After midnight. After I reached the point of exhaustion. And this morning, feeling no hangover whatsoever, I had to wonder.

Wonder why. Exhaustion prompts you to do a medley of things, but typically not text men oddly sweet messages when truthfully, truthfully -I'm not so sure. It's true, I don't trust him. But time heals and- I could trust him eventually.

We have seen each other a few times. Yesterday. And I left him feeling like it could go either way, and I wouldn't really mind. Because the thing is, the part that is unsettling to me is this: this late night text? It was a lie. It was a pity text. It was an I'm-sorry-I'm-cooler-than-you-and-a-total-bitch-but-you-started-it-and-now-I-don't-trust-you-but-kinda-feel-guilty-because-it's-in-my-nature. But it didn't come out that way at all. What was I thinking? Wishing for something that doesn't exist? Wishing that I really did like him, really did want to talk to him when I'm exhausted and texting nonsense?

Maybe I scared him off? Is it bad that I kind of hope I did?

Wandering eye

Or mind. Wandering mind.

First official date with The Musician, lunch and talking and me still being ravenous when I got home and walking and this pier with fiddler crabs and a view and talk of the salty air and our mutual fear of birds and one time one flew into his car and talking too long about former relationships and wondering when he would kiss me and I didn't call my sister back but did manage to say fuck in front of a small child.

Just the usual.

But knowing how slow things must proceed with him, how guarded I am and how scared he is, knowing this made me think of things I can (or can't? Or can?) have, like the Third Grader. Despite his being gone already. So maybe... can't.

It feels primal. This can/can't. Kissing doesn't kill has suddenly taken a turn for the ...sex. Well, sex doesn't kill, either.

One monogamous day

Monogamy. The Third Grader told me he was interested in monogamy.

I stopped him right there.

We don't even live in the same town.

"What do you mean, monogamy?" I queried.

He paused.

I waited.

What if

Timing. It's all about timing. Chance. Circumstances. Really. Maybe my cynicism is getting the best of me, maybe it is, but I'm really beginning to feel as if dating, relationships, sex- it all has to do with who happens to be sitting next to you on the train, on the bar stool; who frequents the same coffee shop. And then you make it work. Then you give and you take. Then you accept the person, forgive the person, because suddenly, it feels sacred.

But what if it's not?

What if really, really, there are so many possibilities, so many what if's, so many bar stools that you can't even fathom? What if truly, it's all about chance. Everyone offers something different. Everyone brings something new to the table: good, bad, crazy (that'd be me, this blog speaks volumes attesting to this very fact). And it's all a fit. It's not all magical, it's compromise, and really? [Besides totally nullifying any point I've made thus far pointing to the uniqueness of relationships, of finding someone who you actually like- who you love], I'm beginning to wonder if I could happily be with a variety of people, all offering something different, but all offering also, also, something good and unique.

So, soulmates and all that jazz? Maybe. Maybe. And maybe I'm cynical. But what if there are multitudes of what ifs?

I'm so excited?

I'm thinking of appropriate song lyrics. This is not a Jessie Spano reference. Don't worry.

I should be more excited about The Musician business, right? I should be more excited?

But truthfully, I'm worried about my self respect. I have it, right? Right? But the more I talk about it, the more I mention it, the more I feel as if giving him a tiny, tiny chance means that I- obviously- have no self respect. (And tiny, tiny chance? Apparently, that means lunch. Yes. It means lunch. We're having lunch. Tiny chance: shouldn't that mean something along the lines of perchance seeing him out and about and then maybe I'll talk to him and then maybe I'll see him again and then maybe if we see each other again and it's been a good sixteen months I'll exchange more than niceties?) I feel like I'm not giving myself enough credit.

We all need credit. We all need to make decisions and know when to draw the line. His reaction? His avoidance? If that's how he acts towards me when I am just beginning to know him, how is he going to act if I do get to know him? And some wise advice I just got? Everyone has a story. It doesn't mean you treat people the way he did me.

And then despite being perhaps alone and perhaps self aware and perhaps spending too much time with books and cats and work, perhaps we accept men sitting on our floor with good intentions? But does he have good intentions? Am I trusting my instincts? Is the obsession with work and Hemingway keeping me from seeing the truth?

And can I blame it?

Hemingway is clouding my judgment. I can't be blamed.

(I'm pretty sure that Hemingway will be at fault in a few months. Or tomorrow. But certainly not me.)

Walk on the wild side

I can't even walk home without having oh so many awkward encounters with the opposite sex. The first began with a man who has not taken my subtle hints, who insisted upon walking me home. I was sure to remind him of the street in which he lives upon though, so as not to allow him to walk me any further. And en route with said man I saw the Third Grader, but he didn't see me. I wanted him to. And after that and after that: The Musician. And the fateful talk. And we will see.

The slightest touch

As I was hunched over my computer last night, writing the previous rant about the Musician and how I secretly hoped he'd knock on my door and grovel, he knocked on my door. And grovelled? Yep, you betcha. He apologized for blowing me off. We sat on my floor. Kept our distance. Talked. Asked questions. Told him the truth. He talked. I listened. Hours passed. I asked him to tell me something honest: he touched my knee.

Insult to injury round two

He really shouted, "Hey, Heartless!" to me as I was walking to my door. The Musician. (Heartless as in my pseudonym in this blog. He really didn't refer to me as heartless.)

I knew this would happen! I told you! I told you I would walk home one night and find him here. I would find him with my roommates and would be perfectly civil but would wish secret, angry curses against him.

So he's outside. Right now. And part of me wishes he'd wander past my room. Part of me does. Despite my appearance. Despite the pajamas of assorted Ex Wear. Despite my anger. Despite my present state of hunched over my computer.

I went into my kitchen to get water, found myself (logically, mind you) unloading the dishwasher, then feeling paranoid that he'd walk in and find me and how dare I unload the dishwasher! How dare I unload my dishwasher at my house whenever I want.

It's not the dishwasher. It's the thought that another person cannot deal with me. Cannot see himself unloading dishes or hanging out or merely texting back. Calling me back. That's where we stand. He refused to call me back. I saw him last week at my favorite bar. On my turf. And again tonight. On. My. Turf.

Leave. My. Turf.

Seriously?

I feel like I've just been re-initiated into third grade. This one, this new one, the one who ignores me as a way to tell me he likes me, he is new. And fleeting, as they always are. We kept getting into these intense conversations and then he would excuse himself and not come back. So I took that as a sign, a sign that he wasn't interested. But then we would find ourselves talking again, him clearly wanting to know more, situating himself near me, asking me specific questions. But then wandering off again.

And finally, it was late. I was tired. I was leaving. And as I was leaving, I found myself outside, in the dark, next to him. I couldn't help but think, Was this planned? Wondering if he had counted on this: this dark moment. And truthfully? Honestly? I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted him to kiss me and then I wanted to drive away in my car.

But he didn't. And I didn't. He gave me an awkward hug. And walked back up the steps into the house.

And I stood there.

And stood.

Then said, "Seriously?" after him. But he didn't hear me. So I got in my car. Felt foolish. Went to start it. Stopped. Tried to think of an excuse. Then thought, Fuck it. And got out of my car and walked up the stairs after him. But he wasn't there. And I didn't want to make an obvious inquiry. And then I really felt foolish. And so this time I really started my car and really drove away.

Red, red wine

I just found myself sitting on the bathroom floor, red wine and a pregnancy test in hand. Counting to one hundred eighty. I got to sixty and then I think skipped to 71. Stopped. Reassessed. Knew I should have brought some kind of timer. 67 68 69 707172734567. Tried not to touch it. Re-read the instructions. Worried I didn't do it correctly. Worried I missed a step. The step that would tell me that it's true, it's true. It was all a big mistake, meeting him, knowing him, knowing it was never going to work and still knowing him. The most ironic of all things. The most evil irony.

And trying not to think about those three minutes, trying not to worry, trying not to think about how I'd broach the subject or what I would do or how things would pan out. Thinking how red wine would see me through this, red wine would make it all okay.

And I write pretty words (or I tell myself I do). I write and try to be relateable and try to be funny and want to tell you things, things that are real and truthful and honest, but really, there's still sugar coating. This moment? This moment is terrifying. This moment could be the worst of my entire life, and no one would really know that, not from the red wine talk. The red wine doesn't tell about how I looked, sitting on the bathroom floor, resolving to do this, resolving to know, to know, resolving to sit next to this bottle, look at it, know that I need it, know that I need it to deal with whatever this three minutes brings. That pink line. That's what I'm looking for. And staring at it, 129 seconds in, I'm wondering if I'm a monster. Wondering if I really am getting what I deserve. Wondering if I'm out of control. Wondering if this red wine is my only friend. The only one to see me through the next 51 seconds.

The pink line didn't appear. But the red wine? Oh, its still here.