Today I thought was only the second time I'd ever seen him again, until then it was the one night stand that simply wouldn't die, stubbornly refusing to accept its fate and wreaking havoc as it went. I must admit that in all sorts of unlikely moments, it would echo from some far hallway I'd stored it in. What if..it would woo eerily. All sorts of what ifs. What if the funny man returned, what if he was actually here again, with you? What if he made you laugh again but cried for the same things you do? In one way, it wasn't hard to contain these at all. His eventual disappearance was proof enough he simply couldn't be there and that it was for all intents and purposes, the right thing.
I had told him there were no mistakes, and I believe it. It's simply difficult to accept that it takes so much for us to finally be who we're meant to be. The days we live are the days we hone every skill we have at this being-ness. Even if we share our stories with many others and partake from the same cup of sorrow, or share similar joys, every thread weaves into our uniqueness. That thought delights me. It makes being here make sense, especially during times I find a longing to evaporate and I am jealous of the air that gets to go everywhere.
I blink a little at the light touching his blonde head, but he leans down to kiss me goodbye. I'm a little bothered by how familiar his comings and goings are already, even if it's idiotic to claim familiarity of someone you've only seen twice. With him, I hate the feeling. Because it feels good and I'm not sure what it all means. They are not epic, these goodbyes. They're comfortable, the same way someone you've known all your life saunters off with a carelessly mentioned, "be right back" and you don't doubt it. Mostly I'm suspicious of myself for feeling it, I don't want to give him all the credit!
It was summer, according to my almanac this could very well be some kind of weather induced hormonal disturbance. He could be the sort that can't be with just anyone, or at least needs a hot girl who can be as melancholy as he at times. Who knows. I at least had some skill at living several lives, so I went on with mine and wrapped the one that contained him into a careful little ball. It was so fragile you see, and a hint of too intense an inspection would probably make it explode into a cloud of dust. His fragility, mine. Ours. All unabashedly together. It was hard to look at anyway.
In the midst of work, and flames, present and former, he called again. And again and again.
"So...where do you want to go from here?," he asked me one day, too weak to resist the norm of his over-think.
"I think we need to go organic on this one," I stated. A pause.
"Organic meaning what?," he clarified. Gawd, not this again. "Organic, like talking about this is insufficient activity to determine a direction, it has to be empirical," I replied, not particularly caring if he understood. I wasn't in the mood to build this like Rome.
"Like we should see each other and go from there?," he ventures. "Yes, but I think it would be better if we don't jump into bed or rush things because you know, it's been a while and I wouldn't really feel comfortable doing that. I hope that's ok, I wouldn't want you to be disappointed," I hear myself say, oh shock and horror. I could've had him for dinner and twice for dessert the last time, but I was trying to be sensible.
"Actually, I can totally understand that.," he agrees then adds,"Men aren't completely sans feelings you know? I could come over and we could have a walk, some coffee maybe?"
I say ok, and am distractedly thinking of how to control myself when he says, "But I have to say you've kept me up so many nights, I can't actually promise you I can be that good. But we really should get to know each other better, like that's not a euphemism." I groan. This man was going to be my own personal poltergeist.