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?

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)

A year ago today, in this very minute, I was getting ready to go on this date.

It was –and still is– the best first date of my entire life.

Sometimes, I cannot reconcile the two men; the man who was on that date with me, and the man who eventually broke up with me. How could they be the same person? Sometimes, I cannot reconcile the two points; how could a beginning with that much potential have such a pedestrian ending?

But, today, is not the day to re-question all of that. The answers are as unknowable to me as the date of my next best date.

All I can do today is read back on that day and take comfort in the knowledge that a year ago last week I had no inkling that my life was about to change. I didn’t know that on that next Tuesday, my hair would be straight and my heart would be skewed to happy. I couldn’t imagine that I was about to experience the elusiveness of a reciprocated crush.

It’s kind of like the way I feel now, today, this very minute: I have no idea what will happen tomorrow.

And I like it.

‘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.

He left me….

…while laughing.

…a sea shell. A common shell that once lived with its other half somewhere in the dark.  He gave it to me on our second date. He was the one that could dive deep into the sea with his eyes open;  whereas I floated on the top blindly squinting in the sunlight.

…confused. On the Friday, he had said, ‘This is a serious relationship, right?’ and on the Monday it was over.

…with one question. Wait, why did we break up?

…guarded. I am finding it increasingly difficult to believe the words and the actions of men.

…and I am stronger now.

He left me…

…a hot pink and black scarf from his travels.

…a copy of  ‘The Painted Veil’

…with a huge crush on Will Shortz.

…with hundreds of archived emails that still make me smile.

…with a new friend.

…and I am smarter now.

He left me…

…because we didn’t have another choice.

…with petals of lies in his wake that I still find scattered wherever I walk.

…a cocktail umbrella.

…thinking that all men really need to be much taller than me.

…and I am braver now.

He left me…

…for another country.

…convinced that in order to be loved I needed to fundamentally change who I am. (Thankfully, he left and I let him.)

…broken. (But I built myself back up beautifully.)

…with an intense need to be a writer.

…a delicious chocolate cake recipe.

…and I am so thankful for it.

He left me…

He left me…

…on my eleventh year.

…his last pack of cigarettes.

…fatherless.

…an intense fear of knives.

…his temperament. Quiet, studious, wise and impatient of fools, liars and bigots.

…and I survived.

What have the ones who have left, left you?

(Idea stolen from the ethereal Alexia at Say Another Lexi)

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.

The last time…

…a man’s hand held mine was 10 months ago

…I purred a name into the night was 9 months ago.

…I asked for the phone number of a boy was 8 months ago.

…a hand lingered on my waist was 7 months ago.

…I was loved was 6 years ago.

…I knew the way to be a girlfriend was 5 years ago.

…I was kissed was 4 months ago.

…I met a cute man was 3 weeks ago.

…a cute man kind of asked me out on a kind of date was 2 days ago.

…I kind of said yes to a kind of date was 1 hour ago.

It occurred to me on Saturday night that my heart has hardened.

I don’t mind this change at all. Indeed, I’ve welcomed it. I’ve used up too many tissues and ruined too many perfectly drawn lines across my eyelids to last me quite some time. It seems about right that I put up some defenses. I sat–alone–once my plans for the evening had fallen through and it made sense to be alone. It was easy. I picked up a DVD effortlessly and secretly smiled as I watched couples and friends arguing over movie titles. I ordered food for one without looking at a menu and I poured my body into an over-sized t-shirt and torn leggings. I twisted my hair into a bun and ate ice-cream from the carton and I couldn’t care less that I’d become a cliche.

Once the heart hardens and once its gates are protected, there is no way for sadness to sneak in.  Hope is lost and the silver lining is that it will force me to stop looking for fulfillment through other people. My heart feels stronger. Even though my head knows  that the only reason I feel stronger is because I’m closed to the potential of feeling vulnerable.

Whatever. It’s working.

In fact, I’m smiling more. Inside, at least. And I think bright thoughts like:  Colour your life with lipstick. Even waterproof mascara has been known to smudge. So, I paint my lips pink to show that I can play this game too; even when I know that my lips are lying.

I’m not a pink kind of girl at all.

I’m a lips bitten to a raw red  girl;  a deep red that will always  match my short, neatly squared nails. And even though they’re short, and even though they’re square, they are still nails that will scratch. Particularly those who ask to come close to me and when I do, huff and puff and blow the house down. And, I’m still rebuilding from the last time.

I’m lying through my teeth. I say that I don’t believe in me. I say that I don’t believe in him or us or the future. But, I do. I say I’m over him and I say that I don’t care about him and I say that I’m friends with him but I do and I do and I’m not.

I lie because I don’t want to give in to feeling. I want to stay numb. So, I paint my lips pink and pretend that I can play too.When the truth is that I’m all lies.

My heart hasn’t hardened at all.