Hope Dies Last

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)

Over the last three months, Illicit and I maintained a strict  friendship. There was no further kissing and I had convinced myself that we were friends. If you had asked my girl friends, they would have agreed. Except, they would have added air quotations to the label  friends.

And so it came to pass that I asked him:

‘Does your girlfriend know that we hang out?’

‘No, she doesn’t.’ He replied; arguing that there was no point in telling her the truth since she may–from afar–misunderstand it.

I, not one to beat around the bush, then asked:

‘Why do you think you flirt with me?’

‘Do I?’ he said smiling. ‘I don’t mean to.’ He argued that I was probably misunderstanding his sense of humour.

Last week while we had lunch, I knew that I had reached my limit of denial. I knew the main reason that I spent time with him was because I wanted to be there if and when he broke up with his girlfriend. I was there because I was too scared of not being there. But by being there with him  I wasn’t elsewhere with someone else. I was scared that I would lose my chance. I was scared that I would lose him. Even though, I never really had him.  I couldn’t pretend anymore. I couldn’t let him keep me back while I waited for his synapses to snap, crackle and pop into action.

So I looked him in the eyes, took a deep breath and told him the truth.

And he replied,

‘I like you but I’m not attracted to you.’

As I waited for my own nerve endings to react in some way, I was unable to believe that this was his truth. But it was. He was convinced that we could be friends, that my crush would fade away. I was convinced that this would not happen if I continued seeing him.

And so it came to pass that I ‘broke’ up with him.

I told him that I could not see him again. Later that day, a cloudy gloom settled over Athens.  And I got rid of all evidence of our ‘friendship’. Facebook. Remove. Contacts. Delete. Photos. Slide and delete, slide and delete, slide and delete. Messages, incoming and outgoing calls. Delete. Delete. Delete. I didn’t cry. I didn’t fall into a deep blue pool of endless questioning or of cyclical self-pity.

By the next morning, the sun was bright again.

And so it came to pass that I sit here now–happily–hoping that I will remember this story; hoping to remember this lesson.

Truth begets truth. Do not let fear of losing love (or the potential of love), keep you in a headlock. Ask. Get your answers. Get what you want. Do not let fear of the worst case scenario keep you in the unfulfilling reality.  Let go. Move toward that awesome potential of tomorrow.

I told the truth. And I didn’t get what I wanted.

I’m still standing; eyes open, heart ready, hope fully charged for the next story.

I only realize the pasts influence on my present, when I’m in smack bang in the middle of a brat attack.

At 16, I met a man while holidaying in South Africa.  This man was–and still is–my first head over heels reciprocated crush. I adored him. We lived a continent apart and yet we would exchange letters regularly. He confessed that he liked me, that he missed me and that he wished the distance between us was smaller. In time, his letters stopped coming. I would ask my close friend that lived five blocks away from him if she had seen him. Her responses were vague. I was too young to understand triangles. I was too young to understand that sometimes people will evade because they don’t want to hurt you. Then, finally, one day I learned through a mutual friend that not only was my friend and my long distance crush dating but they were in love.

It was a hard lesson to learn and accept at sixteen. It is easy to find flaws in the woman that is dating the man that you want. But when that woman is your friend, it is impossible. I knew her, I loved her. I knew all her good qualities and I knew that she deserved someone exactly like him. I wanted to hate her. I wanted to hate him. But I couldn’t–they were so damn cute together–so I quietly surrendered.

Since then there have been moments were I have been worried that the man I like will choose a friend over me. It is not beyond the realm of possibility; my close girl friends come in insanely attractive packages. They are all smart, pretty, independent, funny and strong women. Over the years, the same scenario has unfolded a couple of times. Never in the same intensity and never with the same ending but the story has been the same. I like him. He likes her. She likes him.

Right now, a similar story may or may not be unfolding. My gut feeling tells me that a new man–let us call him Apollo–who I find–let us just say–interesting seems to find my friend quite interesting. There is a possibility that my past is colouring my interpretation of his actions, but I can’t tell. She is adamant that it is all friendly and besides, she is smitten and taken by a very lucky fella.

Still, I worry. I worry because I adore this friend but I have these uncontrollable feelings of anger, resentment and jealousy towards her that I can’t put a handle on. Really,  I’m being a brat.

And it blows.

So I’ve gotta know:

Have you ever found yourself in such a triangle with a friend? How have you dealt with it?

Somewhere out there is a boy that received a text message that looked like so:

:(

Simple enough right?

No. This feat of engineering, science and literature took two brainy women (writers no less) two a half cigarettes and ten minutes to prepare.

‘Should it be sent like this’

:(

‘Or like this?’

: (

We analyzed.

Then upon reflection, stared at each other and burst out laughing.

This is probably the best part of a crush. Hanging out with your girlfriends, composing messages, dreaming of all the possible responses and talking. Just talking. Of the loveliness, of the butterflies, of the ‘look’ he gave, of the if’s and when’s and how’s. Of the future. And the past. Of all the paths that brought you down this path.

This boy is not my crush. Yet I’m still crushing.

I’m crushing on hope. I’m crushing on potential. I’m crushing on risks. I’m crushing on being allowed to be a part of some sort of a beginning.

And if this is as close as I will get to a crush this winter, or spring or even summer it will be enough. Because this is the best part of a crush. The part where you spend ten minutes shamelessly debating one space between two punctuation marks.

Tell me about your crush.