Hope Dies Last

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.