Over the weekend, I found myself thinking about F. No particular thought, just randomly thinking about him -- seeing the Cream ticket still fastened to my refrigerator, as well as the stub from that Yankee game we went to in the fall, remembering the bolt over the bridge in the Corvette. Sort of like looking through a box of old pictures and smiling at the memories. Monday morning as I came out of the subway, we spotted each other from a half block away, and I felt a huge smile spread across my face, and saw his answering smile in return. It was as if I had never said those terrible things to him and there was never any friction between us.
Last night, at the start of this particularly slow-starting week, I was marking time to 6:00. (You know, it occurs to me, out of my circle of friends, I may be the only one who has actually marked time, in a marching sense of the word.) At about 5:05 my IM pinger pings.
"Janey? U Still There? It's F. Can u come down and talk?"
Now, back in the old days, that would have meant, "Hey, come on down, let's have sex!" But that's so 2005, isn't it?
He really must have wanted to just talk.
So I head on down there at 5:30 -- the gates are down, and I get a little nervous. Am I going to have to fend off advances? But I forge on in anyway.
We start to talk.
And it is good.
Seems he's confused because after the shit I wrote about him in that last, blistering email, I've started thawing out, and have been nice. This is confusing to him. Apparently he needs to classify people as "good" or "bad" -- and because I said mean things, I needed to be "bad." Then I was nice again and he started to feel I was "good." He was highly confused.
After apologizing -- telling him I was deeply sorry for saying mean things to him in the email -- I tried to explain that the world isn't black and white. That in fact, I am not black and white. I'm every shade and gradation of gray, plus CMYK in between. It's what makes me me.
At any rate, it was a really nice conversation, fences were mended. We talked about the nature of love. He doesn't believe that it exists. I do, but not in the same sense that most people do. I am working on the big project of the year. Love Without Attachment.
He tells me that when we were together, it didn't feel as if he was cheating.
I have to give him credit. When someone like me takes a few more steps down the path, it's not such a big deal. When a cripple gets up and walks just one step, it's nothing short of a miracle. For him to be mad at someone (me), but still reach out and want to discuss the situation like an adult, it is a miracle. And you know what? I'm going to pat myself on the back for being the person around whom he feels it is safe enough to make that gesture.
He started reminiscing about "us." Together. And....
It was inevitable. He had to ask. Actually, it was more of a suggestion. As in, "We should...."
All I could do was shake my head and say, "No. It won't happen. Ever again." I did thank him for asking.
He was giving me that look. Not the hot, lustful, wanting look. But the lurrrve look, all soft eyes and sweet smiles.
I figured I'd better get the hell out while my virtue was still intact. I stood up.
"Hug?" I said. And we hugged. And then we kissed for a long time. When we broke apart, he buried his face in my neck and said, "No one kisses like you."
As we walked out the door, he turned to me and said, "That was the best kiss I've had since the last time you kissed me."
And that statement, my friends, is what defines a tragic life.
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