Cherie's Journal. Jan. 14, 2009, cont.
I think back on how things transpired, and realize, it isn't a question of whether it was right or wrong. It just was.
Valentine's Day, 2008
I had been out of the marriage maybe three months. It was a bad night: I had just pushed a peeved Craigslister out my door, leaving him to relish the thought of what might have been. His erroneous assumption of our future togetherness had been spurred by the vibe of the night, our fellow diners Chatting in states of blissful intensity, the heat of the fireplace making tiny licks in the wells of hearts along with the chipped plaster walls. Pretending to be in our own state of oblivion we traded buttery talk on wines, conservatism (his), Neolithic artifacts (me), Stonehenge, and so on.
Yes, I was lonely. But so was half of New York. The other half only looked like they were having fun, while actually heading to therapists and retreats and gurus, or if they weren't given to self-inspection, to the New School for non-credited classes on bartending, knitting, crossword puzzle making, or whatever it took to get your pulse ticking for a few hours before you went back to your day job.
On this night I was determined to look like I was having fun too, despite my date's Chubby Hands, dwarfed stature, and resemblance to a hypersexed puppy who had sucked down a case of Red Bull. We lapped up our drinks, he chatting about his business associates who laughed when he told them he was going out on a blind date on Valentine's and how relieved (read: horny) he was to see me looking like my picture. The revelation came as no big surprise, but the bulbe du pénis coming in my direction later that night was, so out the door he was.
Back online barely an hour later, I fled through the computerese of New York's loveless, blithely emailing those who struck some kind of chord, then upon ignoring their return replies (for by the time they came back I was no longer interested in them), emailing still more. But there was this one ad--and 2 or 6 or 20 ads later, I returned to where I pasted it into Word and reread it. There was something about it, and, wondering what he wanted beyond his stated intentions, I checked for what I might have missed the first go-round.
I am an artist from across the pond.
Englishmen were far a field from the pond I myself swam in. Venturing into a new body of water appealed to me.
I am creative and smart and reasonably fit.
I inched myself toward the pond's steely edge, lowering myself for a closer look.
Seeking a creative spirit to be my Valentine for '09.
Yes, I was also in need of a Creative and smart and reasonably fit charmer, particularly with a limpid stare and a lilting accent to drown in. (I invented these details myself, not having given up on fantasizing yet).
I shot the charmer back an email, saying something cute about being creative and fit too and asking why he didn't want a valentine for '08 like everyong else, then immediately regretting my rudeness. Looking for a valentine that lasted the whole year was no call for preemptory defensiveness, but personally I just wanted a date, a decent looking one, and someone who hopefully had something to say other than "I like you boobies." (They didn't really say that, but that's what I heard in my head).
Maybe I had been too flippant in my response. Should I circumvent with another email? I had come out of a massively long relationship begun when I was naïve and full of ideals, and not believing in finding love over again at this late date, I saw no reason to get involved with anyone past a few dates, even a limpid Englishman. Once I had believed in Happily Ever After, but that was before I knew what the quality of love was about: it was fleeting. Oh, not the love part maybe, that stayed for a while, but the bash your brains against the wall if he doesn't call me type of love. That love, that was the kind that was fleeting. I knew it, and didn't want it. I had no intention of ever going through the goo goo eyes stage again. Love was a series of jagged ledges in which one step was more treacherous than the last, and if you happened to rest too long along the rocky side, you learned that the mountaintop you were after was located so far above that you would be too tired to reach it, if you could even remember why you wanted it in the first place. It was better to just find yourself a nice, smooth plateau. But the flat places I had been searching in were located too low on the mountain, when they should have been situated on a lake. Or on a steely pond, that is.
His return mail said he was staying in with a cold but that I should call him. Hell, I didn't do phone. What more was going to be demanded of me? I debated what to do about this with numbing nervousness. Dates chatted to beforehand were a letdown. Once the Englishman and I had spoken and I'd found out that he couldn't speak a coherent sentence, I'd have to come up with a creative excuse to back out. If the online chatter was strong enough, and you could count three emails between us, why not leap in? Of course if I was revolted by the picture there would be no leaping, and definitely no chatting. I asked for a photo, doubting he'd send one.
But the Englishman had no such issue. The picture he forwarded was not revolting. Rather, it conveyed a self-possessed type of intimacy and laid-back sultriness that I found instantly ingratiating. The look he aimed at the camera said he was looking for something, and that he was going to search for it despite everything. That's what I told myself that look was, anyway; it could have been a case of acid reflux.
I returned his email with my phone number, procrastinating by saying that I too was now under the weather but would call the following day. I was sick, sick from too many brandies, of short men with chubby hands, of medium men with blubbery lips, and of the larger variety who just didn't measure up on any way at all. In fact, I was more than tired: I was egregiously disappointed.
As I returned to his picture I was hit once more by what I saw there. Whatever it was that he wanted, he certainly wouldn't stop until he'd found it.
What that thing was, and how it would threaten our well-being once it came, would come as a surprise. Yes, it wasn't a question of whether it was right or wrong, it simply was.
This post first appeared on Do You Dream Of Finding True Love Or Your Soulmate, please read the originial post: here
