Password protected: Part Two

As I recall it now, the night seemed never-ending as if the world itself were to begin–brand new–on this night. I guess that’s what beginnings really are; fresh starts. A chance for change.  Protecting my heart has never been the way I do beginnings. Maybe, I should this time? I thought.

And I tried, I really did.

The hour hand  had steadily made its way towards 3 a.m and we had finally found an abandoned table.

We huddled together; a group of us and he managed to squeeze in next to me. I inched to the right–to make more space for him–he inched closer. I moved a little more, he came in closer.

‘We can do this all night.’ he said and laughed. I stayed put. He was now potential and all my defenses were up but if I moved any more I would very likely fall off the couch. I was struggling with a conflict;  heartache and new heartbeats. To err on the side of caution,  I began to pay a little more attention to him. I listened carefully to his answers trying to decide if he would be the one that would call and then call again and then call again until it didn’t even matter if he was calling because I would know that he would. Or if he would be the one–like all the others–that would call, encourage me to fall and then yank the earth under my feet.

But what can you tell of a person’s character and intentions when you’re both too busy trying to come up with the best Cartman lines?

When he excused himself to take a phone call I had a perfect chance. ‘It must be a girl’ I thought, ‘Who calls after 3 a.m?’  He returned and I turned my back to him. He immediately noticed. ‘Hey, are you alright?’ The banter continued. I’m only human. Then, I remembered that his four-year old relationship had ended four months ago so I turned my back to him again. I’ve been the rebound. It sucks. But he wouldn’t give up; my wavering attention–the hot/cold vibes I was unwittingly emitting–seemed to spark his interest even more.

But these signs, the phone call, the recently single, were warnings. And struggling with heartache and new heartbeats I made the decision that the night should end before I opened my heart–not to him–but to hope once again. I informed A and she agreed.  He convinced us to stay a while longer. Ten minutes later, we tried to leave again. This time he put up a fight. Him and A argued as you do when you’re drunk. I–stone cold sober–attempted to defuse the situation. But with no luck.

A night of distraction turned into potential and then that potential, with only my own fears in my way, suddenly ended almost as unexpectedly as it had begun.

And I–sensitive I–who had spent much of the night wrestling with giving in to hope thought that I was now without any.

Poof! Gone!

The next three weeks passed in an anxious, cynical jaded furor. Mostly because no matter the amount of hours I have spent crying into pillows, my damn heart seems to be made of indestructible hope. I always believe–mind you without any evidence–that the next one will be different. That (to paraphrase Taylor for symmetry purposes) I’m going to fucking find someone someday who might actually treat me well. (I imagine she doesn’t swear).

Perhaps my big love story is around the corner.  Through the mutual friend grapevine, as of today I am in possession of his telephone number–the one he requested to be given to me. Maybe, this isn’t my big love story. Who honestly knows?

But even though, I  can still see and feel the heartache of the summer in full HD quality and smashing surround sound,  the power of the new, trembling heartbeats is far too tempting.

Maybe, this one will be different. Maybe, password protecting my heart is the smarter choice; just in case he isn’t. (Most likely, he isn’t.)

But don’t I owe it to myself to find out?