The reality of it all

It's like he liked the idea of me more than he ever liked me.

He told me to come Friday night instead of Saturday morning, meaning I would be visiting him from Friday night until Sunday morning, when I had to leave early for a family function back here in Smalltown. We went out for a drink Friday night, and this flamboyant gay man came up to us, to me, and said, You're hot. Not that it's a thing. Not that anyone feels threatened by a gay man hitting on your date. But why was there enough space between us for this other man to find a space?

I woke up in the middle of the night realizing I had drooled on his arm. Panicked. Panicked. But certainly couldn't move. Could only wonder the quietest safest quietest method of cleaning up the evidence. Just layed there, frozen. I couldn't sleep the rest of the night, for fear he might realize my ugly sleepy mistake, so just stared at his tall ceiling in his town not far from mine and thought of all the things on my to do list, instead of relishing his [slobbery] arms around me while he slept.

I like the idea of someone better than I like someone. I don't want anyone to see all my faults, all the ugly parts, all the places I fall short. All the ways I drool.

The Ex used to look at me with hero worship, like he'd never seen anything so beautiful, like somehow I made him different, until we fell in love, fell in hate, fell apart. That's how this man was looking at me this weekend until I opened my mouth. Like maybe I could just be a pretty companion, maybe he'd never had such a beautiful lunch date, but maybe I should do as a child and be seen but not heard. Not that he put me down. But that he wouldn't keep the conversation going, he would simply nod when I would say something, leave gaping holes where natural conversation should have been. Arranged it so that we never touched, we spent the day together but never brushed arms, never kissed. For a while I tried, but then thought, Who cares? and gave it up, resigned myself to the kind of weekend I had: fearful that I'm fucking it all up simply by talking and unable to crack him, to feel like I cannot know him in any way more than one dimension.