Hope Dies Last

Dear Future Man Friend,

I’m sorry that I’m writing to you twice in such a short time span, but its been a surreal week and I feel like I need to talk to you. When I say need please don’t freak out and jump out of a moving vehicle to get away from me. I don’t mean to criticize before I’ve even met you, but that would be an extreme reaction. And we both know that between the two of us I’m going to have to be the dramatic one.

The thing is on Saturday night I watched in horror as one of my favourite people in the world went up in flames. A freak accident caused by a dangerous combination of a rather adorable sheep costume for Carnival and a tiny flame from a tea light.

Man Friend, it was terrifying.

After spending six hours in the burn victim’s ward of the hospital, I feel emotionally bankrupt. I’ve been challenged in my life and this one goes directly into the Top 10 of the chart. Watching a person I love in pain is hard. (Even if they are surprisingly and charmingly chirpy!) The knowledge that there isn’t anything I can do to make it better is even harder. But I’ve learned that in the darkest moments of a person’s life my mere presence is the best comfort I can provide.

Presence, Man Friend. It is such a simple concept yet at the same time so complicated for me. As a closeted phobic, the act of being present is incredibly challenging. I’ve missed out on all sorts of occasions and I’ve disappointed people I love because of my inability to surpass certain limits I place. I’ve learned, though, that there are three kinds of presence available to all of us. There is physical presence–the act of actually being there. Then there’s emotional presence–the act of showing care. Finally, there’s thoughtful presence–the act of expressing presence in the absence of physical presence. (Have I just blown your mind with my analysis? You’ll have to get used to that. I’m a woman of detail.) I rely heavily on emotional and thoughtful presence to be present. Some people accept that and other people simply can’t. I hope that you’ll be one of the people that does.

What I’m trying to say, Future Man Friend, is that sometimes when you need me I might not be able to be there, but know that I’ll always be there for you.

Present and waiting,

Your future lady friend

Hope

p.s. And you thought that this letter would be about how much I need you. That just goes to show that you’ll never quite get me. And I suppose I’ll have to get used to that.

Dear Future Man Friend,

I’ve been feeling restless lately. I’ve been lying in bed for far longer than is healthy. I am frustrated. I want to hang on the hands of a gigantic clock and I want to pump my legs–with all the strength I have–and swing. I want to swing and swing–round and round–until I have moved time to the exact, second before we are supposed to meet.

I have a lot of questions about that second.  How will we meet? Will it be through friends? And if it is through friends which ones? Will we meet randomly? And if so where? Will we meet at a party? At the supermarket? At the Bar? How will I know its you, Man friend?  Will you talk to me all night? Or will I watch you from afar simply knowing? Will there be an instant understanding between us?

I don’t know have any of those answers. But I do know how the after will unfold because even though I haven’t met, I feel like I know you. You’ll be absolutely ready for the type of relationship that I am ready for. I imagine that when we meet you will be tired of the dating ‘game’.  I have a feeling that you’ll be playful, please be playful, but you will make it clear–in no uncertain terms–that I’m it for you. I’m definitely going to do the same because a) I love teasing and b) I’m not one to pussyfoot around feelings.You will call me and you will send me unexpected text messages in the middle of the day. You will reply to my emails and before we know it, before we have even had a first date, it will have been established that these crazy kids? They get each other.

I have a feeling that this is the way it will unfold. And I feel restless because I want to email you right now. I want to email you and tell you about how much trouble I am having with the poetry section of my writing course. I want you to reply that you’ve never had that problem  because you’re awesome. (You really are!) Then you would send me the world’s most terrible rhyming poem to make me smile.

Roses Are Red

Violets Are Blue

Hope is being silly

Should I be her muse?

Future Man Friend, I’m  hanging on to that clock and I’m pumping my legs and I’m swinging. I’m swinging around in circles hoping to fast forward time until the exact second before we meet. Because I’m restless and I miss you and I’m scared. I’m scared that I’m not going to the right places to meet you. I’m scared that I don’t yet know the person who is supposed to introduce me to you. I’m scared that I won’t recognize its you even when we do meet. I’m scared that you won’t recognize its me when I’m standing right there in front of you.

I don’t know who you are and I don’t know where you’re coming from but I want you to know that I’m the girl with the wide brown eyes, the hopeful mind and the open heart;  tapping her foot impatiently.

That’s how you’ll recognize me.

How will I recognize you?

Butterfly kisses from across time and space,

Hope

(More letters to Future Mr Hope here.)

Dear Future Man Friend,

Last night, I was a girlfriend.

The men wore trilby’s and suits. The women had feathers in their hair and strawberry soaked stains on their lips. Sing sing sing–of gramophone quality–shimmied into a smoky, golden room. The whole evening was dipped in sepia tones. Our costumes allowed us to leave Greece of 2010 outside and be entirely different characters in New York of 1925. The past always seems so much more decadent than the present.

So, spontaneously and with no co-ordination we gave each other new names and background stories.

There was Gus–the Mob Boss with his gold tipped cane.  Bella Fontaine–a Hollywood Starlet–and her date Slick Ace–a politician with his fingers in all sorts of pies–whispered in a secret corner.  There was  Norman The Nuke–a physicist and Eva–the lesbian from Europe. There was Rose–a young gal from the South trying to make it in the big city. Holly–the belle du jour–was a high priced call girl.There was Richie, Tony and Micky Blue Eyes–all swindlers of the most notorious kind.

And then there was me.

Pearl.

The Boss’s girlfriend.

The title was given to me by a lovely girl who I hardly know. There were nods of enthusiastic agreement from the rest as she proposed my new identity. For the rest of the night as I would catch my alter egos reflection in a gilded mirror I thought to myself,

‘Imagine that? I look like the type that would be a girlfriend.’

(Not just any girlfriend,Man Friend,  but a gangster’s girl. I love that. It’s so naughty.)

My cynical, jaded self would love to shrug this off as a silly game of make believe. But my never cautiously optimistic self wants to believe that if I look like a girlfriend, if I act like a girlfriend at some point I’m going to be a girlfriend.

Right?

Waiting for you with red lips and bated breath,

Hope

p.s You can call me Pearl in any era, Man Friend.

[Idea for this post has been stolen outright from Mr Peter deWolf.]