I’m thinking that I know this man. I know him. His gait seems familiar. Have I have watched this body walk up and down, in and out? I know him from somewhere. I drop it because I am here with a friend and we’re venting and we’re laughing and we’re planning. By the time I realize that he and I have been glancing at each other –between our respective moments– all night, he is gone. I deflate a little but I’m still flying.There is no residual want in my head. The past is wrapped, the night feels new and I still have hope. Man, I’m stupid. When will I learn?

One week later.

I’m sure I know this man. His eyes seem serious but the smile is boyish. He is the type I would know. But it is the way he moves that has got me thinking. I know that walk. I know that posture. I know that shrug. I stop because I am here with a friend and we’re celebrating. We’re drinking a year of friendship and then we’re snapping at each other and we’re smiling because the honeymoon is over. Beginnings are overrated. As I think this, I look up. And there he is again, our eyes lock. Does he think he knows me too? My smile waivers. He looks away.

One week later.

We’re looking for a table.  I spot one and I turn to the left and spot another. When I turn back, he is sitting at the table we’ve chosen. Oh, he is here again. He sees me seeing him and he almost smiles but I look away. We sit at the bar and it is the last day of August, a month that has tested us both, and we’re counting down the hours to September. We’ve got our back to school spirit and the air is crisp and this means we can wear our blazers soon. I glance in his direction. I want to know this person; if I don’t already.

Ten minutes later

He is still watching me. I’m terrified. This is how it begins. And I don’t want another end; at least for awhile. I want a beginning that will last a hundred days. I shake my head. No, I don’t want a hundred day beginning. I want to know what the middle of something feels like. Past the awkward undressing of souls, but before the stripped bare menace of the end.

A minute later.

I’m walking towards him because I will never learn, because the only way I know to get to a middle is through a beginning. And I reach his table and my lips are moving  and I’m talking and I want to leave almost immediately. But he is smiling and he is replying and he is asking my name and then he offers me his. And he continues the conversation and I think: This is easy. He invites me to sit down and I say ‘Maybe later’;  because if I sit down now, he’ll know that I want to sit down and if he knows that I want to sit, he’ll stand. Ha! Maybe, I have learned something.

An hour later.

This is so easy. He is laughing at my jokes and he is talking to my friend and his friend is talking to me. And when we switch, he lowers his voice. He wants me to lean into him. But I don’t. I say pardon and pardon and pardon until he moves, until his shoulders are the gate to our own enclave. He is telling me that in two weeks I’m going to be on his friend’s yacht sailing to Spetses for the Armata Festival. He tells me that in November I’ll be in his winter home in a remote village in the Peloponnese. I inch away from him. He was more interesting when he was talking to me about his daily idiosyncrasies. I liked him more when he was talking about his own secret parts of Athens.

I remember the recognition I felt when I first saw him all those weeks ago. I do know this man. I know him because he is like all the others. He thinks that largeness will impress me. It won’t. It doesn’t. I am impressed by small, consistent moments.

But I have this stupid hope, and the night still feels new. And he is not loud –he is quiet, a little shy and he is quirky– and he leans into me and he asks for my number, very, very discreetly. Fine, I concede, he may be a little different from the others.

So, I rattle off my digits in twos.

Because the only way to get to a middle is to go through the uncertainty of a beginning.

In July, I wanted intimacy in caps lock but I got it in parenthesis. We curled into each other, upside down, my empty spaces filled by another. “Give me the three minute version of your life story” he said. I nailed it in one. And refused to throw the question back as etiquette governs.  He wanted to know where I had been. I wanted to know who he was. I wasn’t going to learn that from a rehearsed monologue he has repeated mechanically into the necks of other women. So in July, I watched. I listened. I tested.

I was disappointed.

I couldn’t tell who he was because he didn’t know that.   He was still searching, searching, searching for himself. There was no room for another. In the day, he hopped from table to table and jumped from conversation to conversation. He gave his life  meaning by moving, by seeing it all. But under the cover of darkness, his hands remained still. He did not want to explore here. It was ironic. I could not make a self-professed nomad move. So I let us fall asleep in the same spot we landed; our heads where our feet should have been. Eventually, there was no curling, no intimacy in parenthesis. Now we were two straight lines next to each other.

And by August, there was just me, my July Dress and my empty spaces.

July’s Dress: Pull & Bear; on sale €5

One Hope.
Four posts.
Four men. Four different men.

I am sorry for misleading you. I really am.

Are you disappointed that the snippets of conversation I presented are not part of some larger beginning?

Are you disappointed that they’re not all the same man?

Are you disappointed that the last four posts aren’t what you thought they would be?

WELCOME TO MY LIFE.

This is how it invariably unfolds.

I meet men. And once in awhile there will be one that makes me want to stand up straighter. Once in awhile, there will be a man who puffs out his chest for me. There will be  flirting (some of it worth recording) and, in rare cases, a connection.  Our respective senses of humour will match. The conversation will flow; our gestures will mirror each other. Numbers might be exchanged, friend requests accepted or casual plans made on the spot. I’ll send a text message (or he will) and we’ll meet again. The banter will continue and,  if I’m still intrigued, I’ll show my interest.

And that’s when it all comes to a grinding, screeching halt.

Here’s what really happened.

Left field never called.

Unforgettable was all talk.

So was Trembling.

Sunrise saw right through me and didn’t like what he saw.

There have been others this year, littered across these pages, this one and this one and this one, all sucking up my bandwidth. They are all indistinguishable from each other now. Their lines are so similar; their compliments feel like cliches. They’ve become one man. The same man.

And you know, it would be easy to become angry at their empty words. It would be easy to become jaded in the face of these meaningless connections.

And at night this is what I choose: easy. I remove my mask, I take off my armour and I slide into bed. A pair of tears escape before my cheek even hits the pillow. Usually, they drop quickly and quietly. I’ll wipe them away, close my eyes and force myself to dream. Other times, especially this summer, there have been unforgivably long nights where I have bitten into my arm to smother my frustrated screams.

[And before you think this is a post about the hardship of being single, it is not. It's far more complex than that.]

You know, for a long time I believed that the one who loved me would eventually leave me. It was the lesson I learned from that snap abandonment of losing my father. It wasn’t realistic, but it felt true. And then, for a long time, I tried to knock down that distortion. I forced myself to visit his resting place, and I forced myself to grieve. And in my delayed grief, I found something else. I found anger. And with that I thought that I had to forgive him for leaving me.  And I felt like such a bratty little bitch. He died. He was killed. It was not his choice. He didn’t need my forgiveness. And because I could not justify my anger, my very real anger, it grew into guilt. And then the guilt began to eat me whole. And then I was told that I had to forgive myself. I had to be reminded that a 12 year old girl does not understand life and death the way I understand it now. And then I felt so sorry for that girl. I felt sorry that she didn’t know that it was an acceptable reaction for her to cry at her father’s funeral. I wanted to turn back time and punch her in the face. Anything. To make her cry.

Because every tear she didn’t cry then, I have made up for now.

Each man that leaves me -whether it is symbolically in the form of nonreciprocating want or realistically in the form of a break-up- has been on the receiving end of one of my deferred storms.

And now I am so tired of baptizing each new tear with my father’s name.

These casual men with their casual lines and their casual connections have broken something inside me. I don’t believe their compliments, I don’t believe their promises, I don’t believe their intentions. They are all talk. But their talk has taught me a lesson that I should have learned a long time ago.

You see, the one who dies is the one who is lifted up to the sky and can do no wrong. The ones who remain are flawed. I got to know my father when he was being elevated. And so for a long time my perception of men was built on this foundation. My perception of myself was built on that too. I believed that men were perfect. And that I wasn’t. I believed that the one who loved me would be ideal. He would have all the answers. He would save me because I couldn’t. He could not disappoint me, or lie to me, or manipulate me. He could do no wrong. Only I could do that.

These men have shattered those beliefs.

And I am grateful to be learning that men aren’t the saviours I’ve always thought they would be. I am grateful because now I can relate to them in a way I’ve never been able to: they are my equals. They are people too.

Their casual lines and their oftentimes hurtful behaviour have little to do with me.  They have their own life stories, their own distorted lessons, their own unrealistic truths. And I’m grateful to have finally seen that. Because now I know that the man I want will not save me from my past. I do that on my own every single day. The man I want is the one who has struggled with dignity and honesty to face his demons. He will not want to be a life-long victim of his circumstances. He will want to let go of his past, not hide from it. He will be real. He will want real. He will see real when it is standing right there in front of him. He’ll stop running.

Because I’m already here -immovable, solid, complete- waiting for a man with the same kind of courage.

Him: So…yea. That’s my story.

Ten silent seconds later…

Him: What are you thinking about?

Me: I’m thinking that is the reason you’re sensitive and perceptive.

Ten slow blinks later…

Him: Wow. I feel like…you just saw…me.

Much later…

Him: You’re really sensitive too, aren’t you?

Me: I am.

Him: I like that about you.

Much, much later…

Him: I have to go.

Me: You do.

Him: I have to get up in three hours.

Me: Me too.

Him: I can’t believe its 6 a.m.

Me: Do you think the sun is out?

Him: [smiling] It should be.

Me: Damn. When I asked your friend to fix the straps on my dress, he pulled them too tight. I can’t breath.

Him: Can I help?

Me: Would you?

Him: Of course. You should have asked me to do it first.

Me: He was closer.

Him: Still.

Me: Stop talking. Start untying.

Him: Ok ok, woman.

Me: His bows were really pretty. Let’s see how you fare.

Seconds later…

Me: Your hands are trembling.

Him: That’s because they’re so close to your neck.

Me: That was really smooth.

Him: Shutup.

Seconds later…

Him: How’s that?

Me: A little tighter.

Him: There?

Me: Tighter.

Him: There?

Me: Perfect.

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?

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 read all your comments and I read all your emails and most of the time they make me smile so broadly that all you would see, if you could see, is gum and teeth. My real, spontaneous smile is dorky. But sometimes, your comments and your emails, make me sad. Because you, and you and you relate to some of the more painful seconds of my life.I hate that.

No matter our combined experiences, I grip onto hope because I have no other choice.  Hope has saved me from becoming stone hard, and cynical.  Sometimes, hope has tortured me and keeps me back; thinking of situations long past their expiration date. Very rarely, hope eludes me. And when it does, when I can no longer see or hear or feel hope, when I am no longer able to find inspiration, I read some words that a friend once penned with me in mind:

Hope fades.

It seeps through every crack until it doesn’t have enough to glow, and I know
that you’re tired. I see the blinds come over your eyes when you’re through with
looking out for that night-light you can keep in your pocket all the time.
Don’t put down that red lip-stick, don’t you dare. You need to draw
eyes to your lips because that is where people see your sunrising soul-
through your wise words and quirky quips,
the quick curve of your smile.

Hope fades, but it never dies.
You taught me that.

I will never put down that red lip-stick. (OK, maybe I will. But only to replace it with my pink one): don’t you dare put it down either.

Share with me, what inspires you to hold out for hope?

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.