Password protected: Part Two

As I recall it now, the night seemed never-ending as if the world itself were to begin–brand new–on this night. I guess that’s what beginnings really are; fresh starts. A chance for change.  Protecting my heart has never been the way I do beginnings. Maybe, I should this time? I thought.

And I tried, I really did.

The hour hand  had steadily made its way towards 3 a.m and we had finally found an abandoned table.

We huddled together; a group of us and he managed to squeeze in next to me. I inched to the right–to make more space for him–he inched closer. I moved a little more, he came in closer.

‘We can do this all night.’ he said and laughed. I stayed put. He was now potential and all my defenses were up but if I moved any more I would very likely fall off the couch. I was struggling with a conflict;  heartache and new heartbeats. To err on the side of caution,  I began to pay a little more attention to him. I listened carefully to his answers trying to decide if he would be the one that would call and then call again and then call again until it didn’t even matter if he was calling because I would know that he would. Or if he would be the one–like all the others–that would call, encourage me to fall and then yank the earth under my feet.

But what can you tell of a person’s character and intentions when you’re both too busy trying to come up with the best Cartman lines?

When he excused himself to take a phone call I had a perfect chance. ‘It must be a girl’ I thought, ‘Who calls after 3 a.m?’  He returned and I turned my back to him. He immediately noticed. ‘Hey, are you alright?’ The banter continued. I’m only human. Then, I remembered that his four-year old relationship had ended four months ago so I turned my back to him again. I’ve been the rebound. It sucks. But he wouldn’t give up; my wavering attention–the hot/cold vibes I was unwittingly emitting–seemed to spark his interest even more.

But these signs, the phone call, the recently single, were warnings. And struggling with heartache and new heartbeats I made the decision that the night should end before I opened my heart–not to him–but to hope once again. I informed A and she agreed.  He convinced us to stay a while longer. Ten minutes later, we tried to leave again. This time he put up a fight. Him and A argued as you do when you’re drunk. I–stone cold sober–attempted to defuse the situation. But with no luck.

A night of distraction turned into potential and then that potential, with only my own fears in my way, suddenly ended almost as unexpectedly as it had begun.

And I–sensitive I–who had spent much of the night wrestling with giving in to hope thought that I was now without any.

Poof! Gone!

The next three weeks passed in an anxious, cynical jaded furor. Mostly because no matter the amount of hours I have spent crying into pillows, my damn heart seems to be made of indestructible hope. I always believe–mind you without any evidence–that the next one will be different. That (to paraphrase Taylor for symmetry purposes) I’m going to fucking find someone someday who might actually treat me well. (I imagine she doesn’t swear).

Perhaps my big love story is around the corner.  Through the mutual friend grapevine, as of today I am in possession of his telephone number–the one he requested to be given to me. Maybe, this isn’t my big love story. Who honestly knows?

But even though, I  can still see and feel the heartache of the summer in full HD quality and smashing surround sound,  the power of the new, trembling heartbeats is far too tempting.

Maybe, this one will be different. Maybe, password protecting my heart is the smarter choice; just in case he isn’t. (Most likely, he isn’t.)

But don’t I owe it to myself to find out?

Password protected: Part One

Some time ago–could be five weeks now–I saw a man from across a room.  He had all the physical characteristics that make my heart jump to my throat. Perfect distraction material; my stupid heart still pines pathetically for another. While the notion of unrequited affection is dramatically (and painfully) romantic moving on is actually the sole alternative.

He had a disarming smile; intelligent, soft eyes and most importantly (to fulfill my masochistic needs) he looked right through me. Of course, I was intrigued. Two days later, we were introduced by a mutual friend. Upon closer inspection, he had additional positive traits. Age appropriate, an Antipodean mother but raised in Greece. Fluent English. Up close, the smile was even sexier because now it was directed at me. Cue heart leaping acrobatics.

A week after that, we ran into each other at The Bar II (I’m broadening my horizons, people.) To my surprise, he spent much of the night hitting on me. (I spent much of the night searching for Ashton Kutcher.)  The rules as issued by The Universe are clear. The guy you’re not attracted to? He will hit on you. The one you’re drawn to? He will ignore you, or break up with you or fall in love with your best friend.

The Universe must have been temporarily down due to maintenance because directly before he spilled his drink on me and right after I found out his favourite band is The Killers , he asked for my number.

But in a way that no self-respecting woman can give without appearing desperate. Then again, I am certain that if I was more charming–more hero in heroine–I would have serendipitously  found a magic marker and scrawled it on his arm while he looked on with an intoxicated grin. But to paraphrase Taylor Swift; Dudes, this ain’t  Hollywood.

Him: I love this song!

Me: Never heard it!

Him: *SHOCK*

Me: What?

Him: Oh, this isn’t going to work out. I’m walking away.

Me: OK.

Him: *SMILE* [Standing surprisingly still]

Me: I thought you were walking away.

Him: How can you not know this song? When was the last time you went out?

Me: It’s been awhile.

Him: Well then you should give me your number so I can take you out.

Me: *NERVOUS GIGGLE*

Definitely not Hollywood.

But, the night continued. He appeared unfazed by my (lets call it) coyness. He vied for my attention; coming to my side when he could; touching me on the wrist, on the arm, around the waist at appropriate times. When he spilled his fifth vodka/lime across my lace dress–bought three months ago for another man in mind–he apologized and  I simply gestured nonchalantly ‘Don’t even worry about it.’

Distractions are all well and good while you’re pining another; but every so often  the line between distraction and potential appears paper-thin. The slightest shift in wind and suddenly you’re on the other side doubled over screaming into a mascara smeared pillow ‘Why can’t I be loved?’

I felt the wind change direction directly after he spilled his drink on me and right before he took the executive decision that I–somehow– now owed him a kiss.

He patted me down with his bare hand as if skin alone can absorb moistness. My hand traveled down my own body to vodka on lace. A flash forward memory; as of yet un-spilled tears jolted me back into reality. This is what I do. I am smitten far too easily by smiles and distractions and these games.  But,  I want too much to let simplicity win me over. I’m far too ready for more to be swayed by a one night interest; a moment. I open my heart far too early.

I attempted to move away from him. He held onto me; forcing me with his gaze to look at our entwined hands.

I was smitten, won over, swayed. He had just transferred from distraction to potential.

And I–stupid I–completely forgot to password protect my heart.

To be continued…

Impressionism

If we were to ever meet; if we were to ever go out lunching or drinking or even just hanging; if I begin to  quote Southpark, or wax poetic about how much I  like Snoop Dog, Warren G and all good 90s rap; if I start talking about game consoles or Leisure Suit Larry or Asteroids I want you to carefully look around the table.

There is a man at this table. And chances are his smile doth give me the butterflies.

And so my question for today is:

What kinds of things do you suddenly remember that you ‘adore’ when in close proximity to a man you want to impress?

Twenty dates

After the first date, I sent an email to my four closest friends. The subject read, “Would it be too much if I said I met my soul mate?”

On the sixth date, I was certain I had. It was this feeling in my gut that translated into happiness and peace and calmness. People I hardly knew would look at me and laugh, “You’ve met someone, haven’t you?” I was radiating complete confidence, self acceptance and joy.

On the tenth date, I realized that my soul mate was not actually perfect, I began to withdraw out of fear.

On the twelfth date, I realized that my soul mate, while far from perfect, was also not looking for the same thing I was. “I just want to be left alone.” he had said. I–single for the majority of my life–understood that sentiment; I didn’t even take it personally. “OK” I countered. “I can leave you alone.” He–in committed, long term relationships for most of his life–did not know what he wanted. “No, don’t leave me alone” he had replied.

On the seventeenth date, I could feel my soul mate chickening out. He had got caught up in something far more complex than he was ready for; he couldn’t handle it.

On the eighteenth date, I was so scared that the end was near that I withdrew even more. I pushed him further away. Then, I pulled him closer. Then, I pushed him away again. He employed the exact same strategy.

On the twentieth date, we both gave up.  He made a choice and I did not even attempt to fight for what I wanted. All because of fear, insecurity, bitterness and anger of issues that had nothing to do with him. I suspect he unfairly judged me and our brief affair in the same way that I did.

Two months later, I still believe that I met my soul mate. But sometimes, even when soul mates do meet, it doesn’t mean that they will–or should–be together.

He wasn’t the one. But he was a kindred spirit. He was a soul mate. And for this reason alone, I still miss him.

Fuck.

Almost

‘Time heals all wounds’, the tongue-tied tell the broken-hearted.

As seconds roll into hours and hours roll into relentlessly long days and those days turn into weeks with lines crossed through them to indicate that painstakingly slow passage of time gone, the open wounds do indeed heal.

But when the pain eases, when the stabbing, numbing ache of loss fades, all that is left is a sweet, sweet sadness. It is that sadness of almost. I almost got him. He almost got me. We almost got it right. At the core of sadness is resigned anger; no matter how much we want, how hard we try, how much we yearn nothing in the past is in our control. I get angry at him for not seeing the ‘we’ that was. I get angry at myself for allowing my fears of losing him to invade the ‘we’ that was. I get angry at the both of us for giving up, for not trusting, for not letting go.

Four weeks later, I am out of despair. I am healing nicely.

But, I’m still sad. Because we almost had it. We almost got it right.We stood at the edge, we even held hands, we looked down into the unknown, and instead of  closing our eyes and taking that giant leap forward together, we stood on that edge–eyes wide open–and we argued. ‘Should we should jump on three or should we  jump after three?’ And because we took too long, because we could not make a decision,  because we were both too cowardly to jump without wings,  our hands fell to each of our  frozen sides and we walked away.

It was easier to do that, I suppose. I suppose, it was the safest, most logical strategy. I suppose, I am better off. I suppose, he is too.

So four weeks later, I am finally there. I have accepted that it is indeed over.

Well, almost.