Hope Dies Last

Under any other circumstances, I would have refused his offer. I am not a casual woman and 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 awhile. I refused to go outside and play. And when I did, I held onto skirts and hands and stayed close to home. And then I flew out and, without any consideration for the drop, I jumped. I chose to fall into this plot-less story as if I was a book with a hard spine.

The truth is, I am not.

I am not old receipts thrown away and then fished out again to use as scrap. I am paper thin. I am loose pages of a manuscript in the wind. I may tear and I may crumple and I may rip easily, but I have value. I can float and I can do casual.

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)

‘I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation, but would you pretend to be into me? Just for tonight?’

The words are out of my mouth before I am aware if I am being serious. He agrees immediately with true sportsmanship and a laugh. ‘Move closer then.’  I shift my chair, my body and my hair toward him; small cues that I hope another man will pick up on. See, I’ve watched this other man flirt, I’ve watched him exchange numbers, I’ve watched him be a ‘we’ and for the longest time I’ve sat alone or next to a girl friend, my eyes sparkling with a furiously false indifference, quietly losing the inevitable battle that arises between two ex-lovers.

But tonight I’ve got a man sitting next to me. He is dark, unshaven, and obscenely funny. His smile is cheeky; the only common attribute between them. Besides their naughty twin grins, they are mirror opposites.  I would be an idiot if I didn’t take advantage of this. I would be an idiot if I don’t pretend, just for one evening, that I’m wanted. And now my rented man is telling me that the other one is sneaking glances in my direction. ‘I’m not going to get beat up am I?’

I shake my head. He doesn’t even reply to my emails. Why would he punch for me? ‘Well, he’s definitely looking at you.’ My back is turned, I can’t confirm this. I’m flipping my hair and crossing my legs. I’m pretending that I want this other man. It’s not hard. It’s transference. I just take all that unreasonable and unfinished want from my right and direct it to my left. I rest my chin onto my hand and cock my head to the side, pretending adoration. But I’m not listening to a word. Why is he looking at me?

Later, I ask the same question out loud; I’m only half hoping for an answer. The ones I get aren’t helpful because it doesn’t even matter. He can look all he wants because all he will see is this facade; this lie I built to convince him that I’ve moved on, past him, sitting next to someone better.

I see the truth though. I won’t care for the reason he still looks at me until the day I don’t have to ask a man to pretend to be into me.

I doubt this list needs an introduction. But secret single behaviours are those quirky, weird, embarrassing habits we all develop after living alone for some time. These are some of mine.

• Watch a time-wasting show (like One Tree Hill) and pluck the stray hairs on my legs. (I feel the same satisfaction as I did at my university graduation when I find and have to remove an ingrown).

• Eat Chinese takeout in bed while testing my celebrity knowledge on People.com

• Pretend to have a captivated audience when I cook.

• Channel Taylor Swift in her You Belong With Me video and do goofy dances in my bedroom (Hairbrush as microphone is a MUST)

• Rearrange something in one room of my house every week

• Without fail, check the progress of my eye wrinkles in the bathroom mirror after a shower. (Smile. Solemn face. Smile. Solemn Face. Smile. Solemn Face.)

• Secretly love, watch and cry during every movie set in a high school ever. (Do you have any favourites you can recommend?)

• Take obnoxious self-portraits on my Mac before going out.

• Facebook stalk until my hand is numb.

• Facebook stalk until I am convinced that every single person on earth is living a much better life than I am.

• Ask my cat questions. (For example, ‘Do you think he’s going to call? OK, fine. If you think he’s going to call, just sit there staring at me.’

What are your secret single behaviours?

When Cute Man casually asked me if I would like to go for drinks sometime after work, I had reservations but agreed.

Throughout our three week correspondence he has mentioned his recent break-up in every single email. And I have tried to end that topic in every single email. But, he has persisted. In his latest email, he claimed that there are two types of feelings that one needs to get out of their system after a break-up. The habitual ones and the meaningful ones. Never mind the fact that I am quite intrigued by the way his mind analyzes details this way, it sent shivers down my spine. Especially when he admitted that at the moment his feelings were a combination of habitual and meaningful ones. Say what?

In the very next sentence, he confirmed a day next week for us to get together.

I’ve been on the first date after a man’s long term relationship has ended. I arrive on a wind of hope and a prayer. He arrives with mud in his eyes. It never bodes well for me. So before I replied to his email,  I lay down all the lessons I have learned over the last ten years on the table. I thought for a few hours. I discussed it all with a friend.

Sure, I could go for a drink with him and scope the situation out in person.  That sounds like the adult thing to do. But knowing me, as I do, if I go and he is as cute and charming in person, I will ignore all the warning signs and crush on him and date him and think about him and then he’ll break up with me and then I’ll be sitting in the exact seat I am sitting now writing, Dudes, I shouldn’t have let it start.

I also know that none of that could happen. I may go and not feel a thing for him. I know that the exact opposite could happen. We’ll got out, get on and date happily ever after. If I don’t go, I’ll never know. If I don’t go, I’m closing a door on heart break but also on heart warming. Instead of doing the adult thing, I did my thing.

I was honest.

Here is a relevant excerpt of the email I sent.

“Sigh. As I said before, break-ups are tough. They’re complicated and they’re messy. And it sounds like this was an important relationship to you. You sound confused and attached. It gets better, I promise. So, I’m going to suggest this. When it’s not complicated and when it’s not messy and when you’re not confused and when your feelings are not deep, but really, really, really shallow, then we can go out for a coffee, a drink or whatever else you like. Deal?”

My hope is this: be real and I’ll get real back.

Eventually.

But for now, I’m smiling much brighter than I was yesterday. Because now I know this to be true.

I’ve got my back.