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.

Recently, I was told that I come across as a bit of a man-hater. Had I been on my game I would have responded, ‘Man-hater? Pah! I’m a people-hater!’ Alas, I was tired, a little disoriented and what with the ex-lover sitting at the next table and all–a lot defensive. My mock outrage felt scripted.

‘What? No. Way. I. love. men?’

Admittedly, men do piss me off more often than not. But there is one little attribute that most men possess, that I not only love and admire, but also envy — their simplicity. I wish I could be simple. I wish my brain worked that way. However, as hard as I try, I will never go from A to  B without a maze of torturous thought. I like men because they manage to reign me in and balance me out.

Take for example the way I processed my last break-up.

I spent some time with a man that made me believe in men again and then he put an end to it. It was a short conversation and no explanation was given other than ‘It’s over. Let’s be friends.’ My mind screamed, why won’t he give me a reason? Why won’t he talk to me? I was told, early on, by a man that: “It is over. He just wants to be kind now.”

I just want him to be honest.

I would sit with my girlfriend’s in the first few weeks after the demise and we would discuss it all; in every excruciating detail. When I was alone, it was my mind.

I just want him to tell me what I did wrong.

I believed my thoughts could be  retroactive. If only I had done this, if only I had done that, it would have worked out. But pretty soon, someone would tell me that I did nothing wrong and that he is an idiot.

I just want him to feel regret.

My life went on and I met many men; some of them even gave me a little bit of attention.

I just want him to see how other men see me.

Time trickled by and I forgot the colour of his eyes.  I cooled down, I understood, I didn’t blame. I just kinda missed him.

I just want him to talk to me.

But he didn’t for his own reasons. And so, gracefully,  I forced myself to move on.

I just want him to be happy.

It was, of course,  only partly true. I wanted him to be happy as long as I was happy too. But he moved on and fell in love and I didn’t. This turn of events left me unmoved but gave me the motivation to get over it.

I just want him to have never existed in the first place.

Months later, I bumped into him and he looked at me in a way that he shouldn’t look at me. And he touched my arm and then said, ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t touch you.’ It was confusing. So I began to talk and talk and talk again. I got angry. How dare he? Who does he think he is? How can he treat me in this way? Then I realized that I never meant a thing to him and that he doesn’t think about me and that it is indeed over (it had been from the day it was actually over) and there is no drama here, no profound explanation for the end, no out of the ordinary experience. It was an ending just like all those other endings and the only sure thing about all endings is that they’re a preclude to a beginning. And so finally, ten months later, my delayed thoughts aligned with his.

I just want him to be kind.

I don’t hate men. I adore them. I love their simplicity. I want them in my life, I need them in my life because when I let them, they make me simple too.

It is July and I’m nervous.

I’m waiting for him to kiss me. I’ve read his palm. I’ve already traced my finger down his life line and accidentally felt his pulse.  We both know it is going to happen because for the last two hours, all we can see are lips. He takes a sip of beer and puts down his glass. I pick it up and imitate him. The beer is cold and bitter but as I swallow I bite my bottom lip and it goes down sweet.  He moves next to me. Kiss me, I think and he does.

I finally exhale and blow a stifled breath into him. When our eyes open, I expect to see my own relief reflected back at me. Instead I see hunger.

It surprises me. Wait, I’m not there yet. He leans in again and kisses me again and this time his hands are touching my body in places we don’t talk about with the lights on. Wait, I’m not there yet.  I put my hands into his; here touch these instead.

‘Why are you being so coy?’ he growls.

I fall back, away from him. His words don’t scare me. It’s his eyes. They’ve fogged up; he’s not looking at me clearly. I’m disappointed. Wait. I don’t want this tonight.

‘Your body seems to want it’, he says as he kisses me again. My eyes stay closed but my legs open. 

No, no, no. I scream to myself. Don’t want me for this. I want you to wait. It feels like a split second decision but it takes twenty minutes. I’m there, lying on the floor, but I’m not in my body. I don’t have to force myself to kiss him, because all I want is a kiss, but  my hands are not my hands. They’re touching, grabbing, unbuttoning, pushing, pulling. Is this what you want? I challenge.

‘Let’s go upstairs’, he says.

‘No.’

I don’t want it to be like every other time; I don’t want to be another woman in his bed. Instead I become another woman on his floor.

I want to wait. I don’t want this to happen now.

But it does.

***

Last year, I didn’t love myself enough to believe that if I told him to wait, he would, and then still want me. Have you ever given in to the moment because you were afraid that if you didn’t, the moment would never come again?

I make general and derogatory statements about men all the time.

Today, over coffee, I was on a rampage. When I paused for a moment, and listened to the words I was using, I felt like an idiot. I was being unfair. Sure, men can sometimes be weak. They can act in ways that disappoint me. They’re so rational that it drives me to be over-emotional.  But I don’t hate them. I kind of heart them. A lot.

I love them when…

…they’re wearing a pair of Converse sneakers.

…their jeans are slightly baggy and their boxers peek out.

…they are not afraid to smile back at me when I’m walking away.

…when they show emotion.

…they finally understand that in acknowledging weakness, they automatically become the strongest man in any room.

…their hair is short and spiky.

…they you use technical MAN words that I do not understand.

…they patiently explain them to me (But if they’re condescending about it, I hate them.)

…they wear layered t-shirts.

…they let me help them.

…they make me laugh by pretending their belly is their alter ego called ”Hans”.

…they do something right, they do it right.

When do you love men?

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.