Hope Dies Last

I’m thinking that I know this man. I know him. His gait seems familiar. Have I have watched this body walk up and down, in and out? I know him from somewhere. I drop it because I am here with a friend and we’re venting and we’re laughing and we’re planning. By the time I realize that he and I have been glancing at each other –between our respective moments– all night, he is gone. I deflate a little but I’m still flying.There is no residual want in my head. The past is wrapped, the night feels new and I still have hope. Man, I’m stupid. When will I learn?

One week later.

I’m sure I know this man. His eyes seem serious but the smile is boyish. He is the type I would know. But it is the way he moves that has got me thinking. I know that walk. I know that posture. I know that shrug. I stop because I am here with a friend and we’re celebrating. We’re drinking a year of friendship and then we’re snapping at each other and we’re smiling because the honeymoon is over. Beginnings are overrated. As I think this, I look up. And there he is again, our eyes lock. Does he think he knows me too? My smile waivers. He looks away.

One week later.

We’re looking for a table.  I spot one and I turn to the left and spot another. When I turn back, he is sitting at the table we’ve chosen. Oh, he is here again. He sees me seeing him and he almost smiles but I look away. We sit at the bar and it is the last day of August, a month that has tested us both, and we’re counting down the hours to September. We’ve got our back to school spirit and the air is crisp and this means we can wear our blazers soon. I glance in his direction. I want to know this person; if I don’t already.

Ten minutes later

He is still watching me. I’m terrified. This is how it begins. And I don’t want another end; at least for awhile. I want a beginning that will last a hundred days. I shake my head. No, I don’t want a hundred day beginning. I want to know what the middle of something feels like. Past the awkward undressing of souls, but before the stripped bare menace of the end.

A minute later.

I’m walking towards him because I will never learn, because the only way I know to get to a middle is through a beginning. And I reach his table and my lips are moving  and I’m talking and I want to leave almost immediately. But he is smiling and he is replying and he is asking my name and then he offers me his. And he continues the conversation and I think: This is easy. He invites me to sit down and I say ‘Maybe later’;  because if I sit down now, he’ll know that I want to sit down and if he knows that I want to sit, he’ll stand. Ha! Maybe, I have learned something.

An hour later.

This is so easy. He is laughing at my jokes and he is talking to my friend and his friend is talking to me. And when we switch, he lowers his voice. He wants me to lean into him. But I don’t. I say pardon and pardon and pardon until he moves, until his shoulders are the gate to our own enclave. He is telling me that in two weeks I’m going to be on his friend’s yacht sailing to Spetses for the Armata Festival. He tells me that in November I’ll be in his winter home in a remote village in the Peloponnese. I inch away from him. He was more interesting when he was talking to me about his daily idiosyncrasies. I liked him more when he was talking about his own secret parts of Athens.

I remember the recognition I felt when I first saw him all those weeks ago. I do know this man. I know him because he is like all the others. He thinks that largeness will impress me. It won’t. It doesn’t. I am impressed by small, consistent moments.

But I have this stupid hope, and the night still feels new. And he is not loud –he is quiet, a little shy and he is quirky– and he leans into me and he asks for my number, very, very discreetly. Fine, I concede, he may be a little different from the others.

So, I rattle off my digits in twos.

Because the only way to get to a middle is to go through the uncertainty of a beginning.

In July, I wanted intimacy in caps lock but I got it in parenthesis. We curled into each other, upside down, my empty spaces filled by another. “Give me the three minute version of your life story” he said. I nailed it in one. And refused to throw the question back as etiquette governs.  He wanted to know where I had been. I wanted to know who he was. I wasn’t going to learn that from a rehearsed monologue he has repeated mechanically into the necks of other women. So in July, I watched. I listened. I tested.

I was disappointed.

I couldn’t tell who he was because he didn’t know that.   He was still searching, searching, searching for himself. There was no room for another. In the day, he hopped from table to table and jumped from conversation to conversation. He gave his life  meaning by moving, by seeing it all. But under the cover of darkness, his hands remained still. He did not want to explore here. It was ironic. I could not make a self-professed nomad move. So I let us fall asleep in the same spot we landed; our heads where our feet should have been. Eventually, there was no curling, no intimacy in parenthesis. Now we were two straight lines next to each other.

And by August, there was just me, my July Dress and my empty spaces.

July’s Dress: Pull & Bear; on sale €5

“This guy is walking down the street when he falls into a hole. The walls are so steep, he can’t get out.  A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up:  ‘Hey you! Can you help me out?’ The doctor writes out a prescription, throws it down into the hole and moves on. Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up: ‘Father, I’m down in this hole. Can you help me out?’ The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down into the hole and moves on. Then a friend walks by. ‘Hey Joe. It’s me. Can you help me out?’ And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says: ‘Are you stupid? Now we’re both down here.’

The friend says: ‘Yea, but I’ve been down here before and I know the way out.’

- Leo McGary | The West Wing -

Interpretation: When you find yourself in a hole, ask for help. There will be people that will try to help in their own way. Their help might not help you. Keep asking. Eventually, someone will jump in with you, hold your hand and show you the way out.

TRUE STORY.

One Hope.
Four posts.
Four men. Four different men.

I am sorry for misleading you. I really am.

Are you disappointed that the snippets of conversation I presented are not part of some larger beginning?

Are you disappointed that they’re not all the same man?

Are you disappointed that the last four posts aren’t what you thought they would be?

WELCOME TO MY LIFE.

This is how it invariably unfolds.

I meet men. And once in awhile there will be one that makes me want to stand up straighter. Once in awhile, there will be a man who puffs out his chest for me. There will be  flirting (some of it worth recording) and, in rare cases, a connection.  Our respective senses of humour will match. The conversation will flow; our gestures will mirror each other. Numbers might be exchanged, friend requests accepted or casual plans made on the spot. I’ll send a text message (or he will) and we’ll meet again. The banter will continue and,  if I’m still intrigued, I’ll show my interest.

And that’s when it all comes to a grinding, screeching halt.

Here’s what really happened.

Left field never called.

Unforgettable was all talk.

So was Trembling.

Sunrise saw right through me and didn’t like what he saw.

There have been others this year, littered across these pages, this one and this one and this one, all sucking up my bandwidth. They are all indistinguishable from each other now. Their lines are so similar; their compliments feel like cliches. They’ve become one man. The same man.

And you know, it would be easy to become angry at their empty words. It would be easy to become jaded in the face of these meaningless connections.

And at night this is what I choose: easy. I remove my mask, I take off my armour and I slide into bed. A pair of tears escape before my cheek even hits the pillow. Usually, they drop quickly and quietly. I’ll wipe them away, close my eyes and force myself to dream. Other times, especially this summer, there have been unforgivably long nights where I have bitten into my arm to smother my frustrated screams.

[And before you think this is a post about the hardship of being single, it is not. It's far more complex than that.]

You know, for a long time I believed that the one who loved me would eventually leave me. It was the lesson I learned from that snap abandonment of losing my father. It wasn’t realistic, but it felt true. And then, for a long time, I tried to knock down that distortion. I forced myself to visit his resting place, and I forced myself to grieve. And in my delayed grief, I found something else. I found anger. And with that I thought that I had to forgive him for leaving me.  And I felt like such a bratty little bitch. He died. He was killed. It was not his choice. He didn’t need my forgiveness. And because I could not justify my anger, my very real anger, it grew into guilt. And then the guilt began to eat me whole. And then I was told that I had to forgive myself. I had to be reminded that a 12 year old girl does not understand life and death the way I understand it now. And then I felt so sorry for that girl. I felt sorry that she didn’t know that it was an acceptable reaction for her to cry at her father’s funeral. I wanted to turn back time and punch her in the face. Anything. To make her cry.

Because every tear she didn’t cry then, I have made up for now.

Each man that leaves me -whether it is symbolically in the form of nonreciprocating want or realistically in the form of a break-up- has been on the receiving end of one of my deferred storms.

And now I am so tired of baptizing each new tear with my father’s name.

These casual men with their casual lines and their casual connections have broken something inside me. I don’t believe their compliments, I don’t believe their promises, I don’t believe their intentions. They are all talk. But their talk has taught me a lesson that I should have learned a long time ago.

You see, the one who dies is the one who is lifted up to the sky and can do no wrong. The ones who remain are flawed. I got to know my father when he was being elevated. And so for a long time my perception of men was built on this foundation. My perception of myself was built on that too. I believed that men were perfect. And that I wasn’t. I believed that the one who loved me would be ideal. He would have all the answers. He would save me because I couldn’t. He could not disappoint me, or lie to me, or manipulate me. He could do no wrong. Only I could do that.

These men have shattered those beliefs.

And I am grateful to be learning that men aren’t the saviours I’ve always thought they would be. I am grateful because now I can relate to them in a way I’ve never been able to: they are my equals. They are people too.

Their casual lines and their oftentimes hurtful behaviour have little to do with me.  They have their own life stories, their own distorted lessons, their own unrealistic truths. And I’m grateful to have finally seen that. Because now I know that the man I want will not save me from my past. I do that on my own every single day. The man I want is the one who has struggled with dignity and honesty to face his demons. He will not want to be a life-long victim of his circumstances. He will want to let go of his past, not hide from it. He will be real. He will want real. He will see real when it is standing right there in front of him. He’ll stop running.

Because I’m already here -immovable, solid, complete- waiting for a man with the same kind of courage.

Him: So…yea. That’s my story.

Ten silent seconds later…

Him: What are you thinking about?

Me: I’m thinking that is the reason you’re sensitive and perceptive.

Ten slow blinks later…

Him: Wow. I feel like…you just saw…me.

Much later…

Him: You’re really sensitive too, aren’t you?

Me: I am.

Him: I like that about you.

Much, much later…

Him: I have to go.

Me: You do.

Him: I have to get up in three hours.

Me: Me too.

Him: I can’t believe its 6 a.m.

Me: Do you think the sun is out?

Him: [smiling] It should be.

Me: Damn. When I asked your friend to fix the straps on my dress, he pulled them too tight. I can’t breath.

Him: Can I help?

Me: Would you?

Him: Of course. You should have asked me to do it first.

Me: He was closer.

Him: Still.

Me: Stop talking. Start untying.

Him: Ok ok, woman.

Me: His bows were really pretty. Let’s see how you fare.

Seconds later…

Me: Your hands are trembling.

Him: That’s because they’re so close to your neck.

Me: That was really smooth.

Him: Shutup.

Seconds later…

Him: How’s that?

Me: A little tighter.

Him: There?

Me: Tighter.

Him: There?

Me: Perfect.

He is shaking his head again.

Me: What?

Him: I just…I can’t…I don’t…

Me: Use your words.

Him: It’s just that on the phone you sound like a girl.

Me: I am a girl.

Him: No, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, your voice is so sweet. You sound like a girl.  But now that you’re sitting here in front of me you are all woman. And…and..and…you’re…you’re….you’re…exotic!

Me: Exotic? Like a dancer?

Him [laughing]: No, no. I can’t explain it. And I can’t wrap my head around it either.

Me: What don’t you get?

Him: How can one woman be so soft spoken and quiet, yet so potently sexy at the same time?

Me: [blushing] I don’t know…how to respond to that.

Him: [clutching his chest] And honest? How has no-one snapped you up already?

Me: I want it to be the colour of cherries.

Him: Something like this?

Me: No, lighter than that.

Him: How about this one?

Me: Nope. Darker than that.

Him: This?

Me: No, that’s not it either. How can I describe it? You know when you’ve been kissing someone for a really long time? I want it to be the colour of her lips.’

Him: Excuse me?

Me: What?

Him: You want the colour of kissed lips?

Me: No. I want the colour of lips that have been kissed so hard and  for so long that they’re puffy and bruised and raw.

Later…

Him [shaking his head]: The colour of kissed lips…

Me [laughing]: Come on! It’s not that weird.

Him: You’re misunderstanding me. It’s not weird. It’s unforgettable.

Still later…

Him: I’d like to see you again.

Me: Oh!

Him: I told you. You’re unforgettable.

Me: Oh!

Him: So? Can I have your number?

Under any other circumstances, I would have refused his offer. I am not a casual woman and usually I don’t do casual affairs. It’s not my style. But the combination of the man, his timing and those invisible cicadas made me think that maybe I should play a different role for a change. Maybe I would even like it.

The truth is, I thought I could do it because this man doesn’t inspire me to write.

With others, I could find a story in every lingering gaze. He doesn’t look at me that way. He hasn’t even seen Me through the cloud of alcohol and debauchery that is his life. So he doesn’t inspire me to write about his lines or his kisses. There is no pushing or pulling. There is no story here.

He is merely an interruption. He does not inspire words because there are none with him. There are no sounds because his want is on mute. I can’t colour him because he is the very definition of black: he is the absence of any colour. He doesn’t inspire me to write which means that he must not inspire me to feel either.

I like that.  It is safe.

(If only it was true.)

See, when I hear of his other women, accidentally slipped into casual conversation, I bite my bottom lip and flinch. It is reactionary, from those collective experiences that have left me feeling that I will never be a man’s priority. I am just one of many options. When I learn that he dates other women, I dig my nails into my arm to brace myself for the punch that follows in my gut. It is a gag reflex; I want to be a protagonist even in a story that has no story. And when I learn that I won’t even be auditioned for the part of the female lead, it stings.

But those long minutes of flinching, stinging and self-imposed scratching are to be expected. My ego is fragile after the perceived rejections I’ve faced over the last six years. And I’ve been scared and I’ve been bitter and I’ve been angry and I’ve been neurotic and I’ve pushed people away when I wanted to pull them in and when it mattered I pulled too hard and it all unraveled. I even stopped breathing for a while.

But now I don’t want to push or pull. I just want to fall. So, I tried. I jumped without any consideration for the drop. I jumped without any consideration for the landing. It wouldn’t have hurt if I was a book with a hard spine.

But, I am not.

Neither am I an old receipt. If I was, it wouldn’t matter where I fell, or even that I fell at all.

But I am paper thin.  I may rip easily and at times I may crumple, but I have value.  I am loose pages of a manuscript in the wind. I can float, and I can do casual.

I chose to fall into this plot-less story, but I am not a casual woman.

And the reason he doesn’t inspire me to write is because he does not recognize that difference.

I’m the one who wrote you love letters. The one that reminded you of Demi Moore. You held my hand so gently. I’m certain that if I had stayed you would have been just as gentle with my heart. You could; we were only 14 years old.

I’m the one who said, “A final question. Do you like avocado?” “Yes” you said. “You’re perfect.” I replied. I’m also the one you lied to so easily. Allegiance to avocado is no longer a deal breaker, but being lied to is.

I’m the one that loved you. “You’re the one” you wrote to me on the back of a postcard. Later, I was the one who cried, “I’ll always love you, even if you don’t.” You didn’t. And now, I don’t.

I’m the one who let you kiss me on the steps of a dorm room. I’m the one who ushered you in hips swaying and then promptly shoved you back out the door. I wasn’t ready for the weight of a different man on me.

I’m the one in the red dress with the ruby lily in her hair. The one that dumped you over a cup of coffee (that you paid for).  I always have trouble remembering your name.

I’m the one who fell off the step machine when you walked into the room. I’m also the one that slammed her head into the locker door when you asked me for my name. You made me so nervous.

I’m the one that slipped you my number in a matchbox. The one you called ‘deceptively petite’. The one that stopped waiting for you (or thinking about you) a long time ago.

I’m the one that you helped with the New York Times Crossword every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday night. The one you kissed when the lights went out. When the lights came back on, I was nibbling on a pencil, forehead furrowed, happily completing the crossword alone.

I’m the one you nicknamed ‘Gazelle’. The one you wanted to see every single day until the day you didn’t. I’m the one that is over you.

I’m the one you shouldn’t have kissed. I’m also the one that likes a man who follows through. You never did. I’m the one that walked away, looked back for just a moment and then remembered that I am a woman that does.

I’m the one with the long, brown hair and the blunt fringe. I am the one sitting in a corner of a room quietly hoping that you’ll find me and see me and sit with me for awhile.

And then I won’t be the one that says, ‘Remember me’. Then I’ll be the one who whispers in your ear,

‘Remember when…’

(Revised and updated from the original)

…trust without being given a reason to trust first.

…believe in the literal meaning of words flung together and whispered across naked skin.

…look for answers in the night; particularly when my eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness yet.

…hope that I would be missed. Eventually.

…forget about the past.

…envy a life I would never want for myself.

…expect nothing. (Even a null expectation is an expectation.)

…compromise my wants and needs for a roaming hand on my bare thigh.

…like it.

…resist writing about all this fire inside me.

…think I had nothing to say.

Your turn. I should know better than to…?

“Be still when you have nothing to say; when genuine passion moves you, say what you’ve got to say, and say it hot.”

D.H Lawrence

I’m going to be still for awhile. But, I’ll be back.