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 own a pair of plastic shoes. With metal studs.

(Yes, before you ask, I was possessed.)

Nothing else can possibly explain this:

To be fair, I have never worn them. It appears I only practice good judgment after I have handed over my credit card. (Um…Reason #3, 488 I’m still single?)

Do you have any items in your closet that cause you to pause and say, ‘What the hell was I thinking?’

Your weekend project is to crawl into your wardrobe, find your tackiest pair of shoes, accessories, clothes WHATEVER and then head over to the Hope Dies Last Facebook Page here and upload your photo in the super, cool album I’ve aptly titled ‘WTF?!’

Let’s share in mutual embarrassment, shall we?

‘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)

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’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.

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.

28. Age, really, is just an arbitrary number. A thirty six year old man can be just as emotionally stunted as a 17 year old boy. TRUE STORY.

27. Being friends with someone younger than you will remind you of all the things you learned at their age and have since forgotten.

26. Being friends with people who actually like you is liberating.

25. How to paint a wall.

24. The meaning of the following words: nuanced, invariably, apropos and jerk-face. (Also: lard-ass)

23. To love your body, you need to accept it the way it is.

22. Don’t wait for tomorrow to make a decision that you know you have already made. Time passes to be sure but more to the point: Moments pass that you can never get back.

21. How to perfect tiramisu.

20. The difference between selfish and self-absorbed. Most of us lean to the side of self-absorption but only some of us are selfish. STAY AWAY FROM THESE PEOPLE.

19.  A woman can stand up for herself without being a bitch. (Most of the time. Sometimes one needs to be a bitch.)

18. Step away from Facebook when you are having a bad day.

17. I really– no, you don’t understand–I really, really shouldn’t talk when there is alcohol running through my veins. I will reveal everything.

16. You are never to old to meet someone that will become your best friend.

15. How to lose a guy in 20 dates. If you’re interested, inquire within.

14.   Giselle-freaking-Bundchen is STILL my age. *Throws fists into the air*

13. On that note, I hate Gisele Bundchen.

12. I am terrified of getting married. Hopefully, Future Mr Hope will be able to bring me down from the ledge.

11. There can never be enough laughter in one day.

10. Puns are HOT!

9. People that don’t get them are NOT!

8. I am a woman but I still cry like a girl.

7. I look absolutely ridiculous in Wayfarers.

6. In lieu of long legs and micro-minis, an iPhone (and cool apps) is the next best way to get the attention of a hot man.

5. If there is a way of getting in, there is a way of getting out.

4. After 27, the outer corners of your eyes will continue to wrinkle at a remarkable pace.

3. My real bra size.

2. A kiss does not necessarily mean that the instigator of said kiss wants you.

1. Twenty eight was one 365 day long lesson in self love.

And because of this, my twenty eighth year mattered. Two days into twenty nine, that is my only wish.

To live another year that matters.

On Friday, I was in his neighbourhood. It happens to be one of my favourite places in Athens. While it is only a ten minute drive  from my flat I haven’t been able to return since he broke it off. In fact, the last time I was there was over seven month ago when I was  accidentally leaving behind a pair of earrings. Last night, I sat in the passenger seat and as the driver weaved through the curvy mountain road and we passed landmarks that remind me of him, my mind went back to the summer I spent in Vouliagmeni.

The air is different there. I’ve always felt it. In the middle of winter or in the hopeful stirrings of spring or even on suffocating nights of summer, the breeze there feels brand new. The people are different too; a little less neurotic than the average Athenian. It must help that the Med is only an inhale and an exhale away. Life pauses there, even with cars whizzing by at unjustifiable speeds on the sea road.

I remembered our third date (or was it our fourth?) We had spent the entire day in the sun. Then we spent all evening in the dusk. Then we spent all night in the dark. I remember my burnt cheeks and his red eyes. I remembered those few slow minutes between dusk and dark when I had randomly blurted,

‘Five’

‘Five?’ he had asked.

‘Five times’ I had clarified.

‘Five times what?’

I remembered the way I smiled and kinda dropped my eyes because I was nervous. Sometimes I do that. Sometimes I say things without thinking the entire conversation through. He needed an explanation for the spontaneous number calling and I didn’t want to have to spell it out. So I had just kinda repeated the sentiment,

‘I’ve been counting. And. I’m. At. Five. Times. That. I. Want. You. To…’ I had hoped my eyes would help him finish my sentence. His grin told me he had.

‘Only? I’m at like fifty-five’.

I don’t know the reason we didn’t kiss right then and there. But I remembered that later after our first, our second, our fiftieth kiss, I would throw out numbers at him; especially when he would go off on one of his geeky rants of how news anchors were ruining the English language.

‘Three’ I would say.

He would come back to me with a higher number–until the day he didn’t come back with a number at all. I suppose a smarter woman would have seen those numberless nights as an obvious sign of his wavering interest. But that damn breeze in Vouliagmeni must have gone and blown all the red flags out of my view.

On Friday, I returned to Vouliagmeni. I was scared that the disappointment of another failed romance would have changed my perception of that palm tree haven. I was scared that it wouldn’t be the same inspiring place it once was for me. I was scared that when I looked into the sky I wouldn’t see endless possibility. Instead I would just see never-ending loss. There are countless of other places in this city that have been ruined for me by heartbreak of all kinds. I didn’t want this to become one of those places.  As I stood on the edge of the marina–watching the pristine, white yachts bopping up and down–the breeze came up from behind me and greeted me in a muted whistle.

I felt such sweet relief.  It hadn’t  changed at all.

It still feels brand new.