In the written word, he's a touch colder. Or maybe logical's the right word. Robotic - his words, not mine. Apt to spurts of sprightly humor that can cycle really fast. He’s analytical, and prone to break things down into neat little packages that have naught to do with each other. He compartmentalizes. Life is a series of systems he knows and intends to master. What makes him good at his work as an analyst also happens to be what can sometimes confound him in relationships.
Manly and athletic, his aggression is often sheathed in the lambskin of his Cancerian sun. He’s mindful of his resources and uses them wisely, in many ways I admire him for even the things that would sometimes cut me. He’s direct, but savvy enough not to be too direct should it thwart him from his goals.
In person, he’s much warmer, with large blue eyes that hardly miss a thing. They’re slightly disconcerting for their depth and expressiveness. The Golden Venus would call it goobly eyes. Princess Diana had it, that propensity of drawing empathy rather quickly with a lingering look.
He'd accurately described himself to me, but first impressions always vary for the amount of physio-emotional data that comes rushing at you. He’d been behind me in the restaurant and when I turned there he was, wiry, slight in stature, with a twitchy yet muscular restlessness you find in the highly active. His features are small and fine, if he’d opened his mouth and spoken French, I would’ve not been surprised. But he didn’t.
We talked over lunch, I made him as comfortable as I could. He explained how the bionic ear worked, how it aggregates vibrations into an approximation of a sound. What made it easy to hear, and what didn’t. We talked for a while in the compact quiet of my car, and I was aware even then, that I said many things without really saying much. It’s hard to get out of the habit of hiding.
But what was I really thinking? There were the demographics. The numbers of age, the distance in geography, backgrounds. These are all things that run through my head as an initial filter of whether or not the entire exercise may be a waste of time. But beyond that, the strange expression he saw flit across my face was recognition and my wariness of it.
I listened to everything he said, but concurrently wondered of the dangers of his emotional empathy. It could draw you in, but it could also drop you from a very great height. I’d already badly fallen once, and there are no spares for any more broken wings. He spoke of having many friendships, as well as many past girlfriends. It was a little dizzying.
“Yes, something”, I’d answered shortly. It was an ambiguous enough word. I’d written back to no one else, save for one close-ended thank you note for a brilliant poem someone submitted as a continuation piece to mine. I’d replied to the Tin Man due to the lack of embellishment, the simplicity of his question. Which I hoped reflected an equally simple and direct person. I love a straight line, even if my thoughts don’t always keep to them. He had much more to say in further replies.
And I thought, but that’s just the thing – you can say that, while I’m wired for such immense caring, once it happens. Still I kept quiet.
I looked at him from the safety of my bubble, not feeling much. It’s often like that with me when I meet men. There are no stories I care to paint from their appearance or their prospects, even the extremely attractive and the wildly rich hold no sway with me for as long as there is no contact made. Only my skin will say whether it’s a yay or nay. Which often leaves me, restrained and away in my corner.