Hope Dies Last

‘I’m a smoker now’ he says.

Weren’t you always? I think.

He’s rolling cigarettes like a professional. How many days and weeks and months has he watched her roll them, to learn how to do it himself? When she’s not there? Later, he steps away from the table to make a phone call. He strolls outside and finds a quiet spot, his head dipped, his shoulders hunched over. He was always unapologetically private. His privacy looks intimate now.  I see him standing there in his quiet place and I imagine him exchanging quiet words to his silent lover.  Still later, I feel his energy. He is calmer now. He drinks his beers slower. His eyes are no longer arrogant; they’re comfortable like he has found a place to sit still for awhile.

I am softer still; so soft that I could crumble any second.

I take my leave. I’ve stayed too long. I walk, shoulders back, to my car. My chin defiantly raised to the sky. When I reach home, I smoke my last cigarette and nod.

I don’t want him, despite the betrayal of my beating heart.

I want what he has.

I want to believe in love again.

If I knew  that love was going to happen to me, would I be different? If my Future ManFriend and I had a fixed appointment to meet made by my destiny and his destiny, would my attitude be different?

Maybe, I wouldn’t be so nervous when I meet a new man and my tongue twists itself into silence by all the internal questions. Is he someone? Is this look a look? Are their hidden messages in his messages?Does he like me? Would he ever? Do I like him? Oh, just kiss me. I’m tired of thinking.

If I knew, without a doubt, that he was coming and I knew the date and the time, but I didn’t know who he was exactly, would I be different?

I don’t think I would; not drastically anyway.

It is like the time I told a friend:

‘I’m going to miss you.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back in a year.’

And I replied.

‘I know. But I’m still going to miss you for that entire year.’

It’s kind of the same concept.

Even if I knew he was coming on the 20 June, 2012, I would still be the same person. I would still meet other men and maybe I wouldn’t be as hurt when it eventually did not work out (Because I would know that it was NOT supposed to work out), but I’d be still be hurt. My heart would still blush when foreign hands lingered on my spine for a few attention grabbing seconds. I would still find quirky funny. And I would still be attracted to all the unavailable men this side of the Acropolis.

If I knew the date, I would still go through grumpy days. Could he like be here already?

If I knew the date, I would still have days where I wouldn’t really want him here just yet. He can take his time. I still haven’t started watching The Vampire Diaries and I know that I’m definitely going to need a lot of me and Cookie Dough time for that.

If I knew, I would still get lonely because I’m lonely now. But I guess, if I knew that I wouldn’t be lonely for ever, the present loneliness would begin to feel like a guilty pleasure.

If I knew he was on his way, I would still whine ‘Where is he?’ to anyone who will listen because–let’s face it–I’m impatient like that.

So if I knew the day he was coming, I’d live my life exactly the way I live it now. Except, maybe, I’d flirt more. Maybe, I’d sprawl across my entire double bed instead of curling into the one end. Maybe, I’d sigh less. And maybe I’d be more patient with men. Maybe, I’d be more patient.

Maybe.

If you knew the exact day you would meet the man of your future, would you be any different?

A little before Christmas I was chatting to an acquaintance, when her gaze rose above my head and her smile broadened. I did not need to move at all to know it was him. Twenty minutes earlier I had whispered to A, ‘I have a feeling he’s going to be here tonight. And that he’ll be with a woman.’

It was all said in a hushed, conspiratorial tone; I did not want The Universe to hear me and then reward me with my very own self-fulfilling prophecy. There are times when all I want is to be is right. And then there are times when I want to be as wrong as torture. This was one of those times. I jumped from my rented seat at their table and turned to face his enigmatic smile. Was this the mischievous grin of a player? Was it the uncomfortable smirk of a nice guy in an awkward spot? I don’t know.

(I don’t even know the reason I am analyzing a smile.Oh wait I do. Because I can.)

‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

‘Back to my table so that you can sit.’ [Singular. I refused to acknowledge the tall, leggy, blond, red lipped warm blooded woman standing directly next to him.]

I returned to my side of the bar and quickly decided that my only mission for the next hour would be to not look in his direction. I was successful for exactly one minute and 34 seconds. My self-control is NOT what legends are made of. I dropped a paper cut thin glance at him. At the exact same moment, he dropped an even more casual, sideways glance at me.

Hook

Line

Sinker.

To say that his split second acknowledgment of me meant nothing would be a big, fat lie. Emboldened and uncharacteristically confident, I returned to his table ten minutes later. I conversed happily with our mutual acquaintance. I bantered with him–as we did during our entire affair. A pair of rams butting heads. Knowing that his attention was now reserved for another woman,  our past and present clashes felt playful not pathological. Up close his shiny lady-friend was less attractive than I had initially thought. To say that made me feel better would also be a big, fat lie. It didn’t. She is a woman; I am a girl. She has him; I don’t.

Without much fanfare, it dawned on me. All this time I have been avoiding, fighting, denying. I’m certain that you all probably know where I am going with this. This is how blind-spots work. Everyone else sees clearly except for the driver.

I fell in love with this man.

That night in bed I cried; a short drizzle but a cry nonetheless. It wasn’t a cry spurred on by pain, or jealousy, or unrequited want. They weren’t tears of self-pity or of desperation; of unfairness or frustration.

These were, at long last, farewell tears. A final nail in the coffin of not meant to be.

And with that I was free.

When I was a kid I assumed that love was easy.

I thought that when I reached a certain age–like twenty–I would meet a boy, fall in love and live happily ever after. Then my father was killed and overnight I learned that love wasn’t straightforward at all. I learned that love lasts and even transcends life but love also hurts when the object of love is no longer there. For several years, my assumed life story altered slightly to include this fatalistic addition. Meet a boy, fall in love, live happily, he dies, I still love.

When I was in my early twenties I assumed that love would eventually come.

I thought that when I reached a certain age–twenty-five–I would meet a man, fall in love and (timing willing) have a long-term relationship. Then my boyfriend dumped me and I learned that I knew nothing about love. Love was a word to use in a moment. It was so meaningful that it became meaningless. Two years ago, my re-assessed life story was that I was not likely to meet my great love. (This was a relief because there was no chance of him dying on me.)

Now in my late twenties, l have no assumptions about love. I’ve made an ass of myself so many times that I’ve lost count.  I have no knowledge on love. I’m plain clueless.

All I know is that as a kid I thought it would be easy. I never expected that the road to love–or to like even–would be this complicated. I didn’t expect that there would be this many false starts. I didn’t expect that intentions could be shrouded in so much mystery that the process of finding love, once as exciting to me as the art of creation, would become a mathematical equation of mythical proportions. One that is frustrating and exhausting. The sheer number of variables in the theory of love are limitless.

And I’m no scientist.

I’m only a woman wishing that it could be a little simpler.

For everyone.

Dearest Anon,

I received a phone call from a blocked number the other day. I thought it was you. For no other reason than if this was four months ago it would have been you. Two missed calls– blocked–one after the other. I racked my brain to think of an alternative. Who else would call me a little before 9 p.m? My bank–who also hides their number–don’t call that late to harass me.

It must have been you, I hoped. Or maybe I didn’t. I don’t really know.

Days later it occurred to me that it could have been Zara. Earlier that day I had asked for a pair of black boots. They told me they would call to confirm if they had them in my size.

Now a pair of black, flat boots that are not too pointy and not too round are hard to find and so naturally I was confused.

Did I want that blocked number to have been you? Or my boots?

There was simply no choice.

I wanted the boots.  I chose shoes over you.

I think we can now safely assume that in leaving me, you left me beautifully unbroken.

E