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Jasmine
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There hadn’t been a morning after of hugs, smiles, and sensual caresses from a new lover in over a decade. Unfortunately, instead of relishing in the swoon of a night and early morning well spent, T’s presence brought more questions. And, I didn’t have any answers. I knew T was right, my psychoanalysis of every single thing, person, and situation sometimes got in the way of enjoying life and living in the moment. I can’t say that I’d ever enjoy spontaneity, but it wouldn’t hurt to be a bit more open to new possibilities. On the other hand, I’m thirty-eight years old and honestly, I don’t know if I trust myself right now to make smart decisions, let alone trust someone else. If I was completely honest with myself, I would acknowledge that my heart was still hurting because of the death of my relationship. It was amazing how much Toni’s and my life were intertwined without the benefit of state legal protection.
For a time though, I thought Toni and I had something special. We proudly told people how long we were together all of the time. Our friends would then offer praise and congratulatory flourishes as if sharing the same address and saying we were girlfriends for X number of years was somehow an accomplishment. It was all a front that was crystal clear for me to see now that I’d been mentally released from bondage and had the extraordinary benefit of hindsight. Not to mention, Teresa’s presence, gentleness, intellect, and thoughtfulness had created a stark contrast that even a blind mouse could see.
My parents—whom I loved fiercely—have been married for almost half a century. But some days, they acted like they didn’t even like each other. I did not want to follow that model. Quite frankly, I didn’t know what model to follow. Was there a model relationship? Maybe ‘Chelle and Thomas? Not because of their big house and fabulous vacations. T had a point; there was something about the way they looked at each other in those photos. But who knows if they were a good model or not. I should be the first to admit that you can’t judge a book by its cover.
I walked from room to room, looking around and removing pictures that encapsulated my previous life with Toni. We were all smiles when we spontaneously hopped on Amtrak just to go to a concert in New York’s Central Park and on trips we took to Rehoboth, P-town, and Jamaica. Toni certainly didn’t take any pictures with her when she moved out, at least none that I could tell. I guess for her, moving wasn’t a sentimental task, just one that needed to be done. I hadn’t paid much attention to the fact that her pictures were still in the bedroom until T slid that in; I honestly saw past them. I packed the pictures in boxes and placed them on a shelf in the basement.
What does one do with ten years of pictures and stuff? I pushed the boxes to the back next to holiday decorations. I would know by Christmas what I was supposed to do with the stuff... perhaps. I was tempted to burn a little sage but after all the rushed cleaning last night prepping for T’s arrival I wasn’t interested in dusting burned ashes. I still felt restless.
I couldn’t settle my mind; it was racing and all over the place. I hadn’t had time to sit and think, like really think, about what I wanted in a minute. So, I decided to turn on my computer and write my thoughts in an email to T. I took two deep cleansing breaths like instructors encouraged patients to do during meditation groups. I sat for a minute with my fingers interlaced, took another deep breath, and started typing. I wrote two sentences, deleted them... sat quietly... closed my eyes, and started typing again. I highlighted words—too mushy—deleted another sentence, then worried about what T would think. What if she thought this was childish? This made me remember a note in grade school that I received from some little boy. “I like you. Do you like me? Check ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ with little boxes next to each.” Hah! I got up walked to the window and looked out at my untended garden. I shook my head, rolled my neck, let out an “uughhh,” thought again about the last few months, and returned to the keyboard.
Hi T,
Sometimes I find myself so overwhelmed that I write to communicate intelligible thoughts and prevent my head from exploding. After you left this morning, I wanted to pick up the phone and talk to you more as if we weren’t just together. To fight the urge, I decided to write.
I had a REALLY nice time when you were here. And it wasn’t just about the sex, although that was sooo nice, I enjoyed you being here. I enjoyed us being together and getting to know each other better.
It’s hard to admit that, and probably shouldn’t be as hard as I make it sometimes. But please understand that being vulnerable on any given day scares me. Being vulnerable with you so soon after my breakup scares the shit out of me. I don’t know that I would survive being hurt again. You asked that I tell you what I want rather than what I don’t. I’m going to say this at the risk of sounding silly, but I want the fairy tale. Certainly not like Cinderella cause I’m not trying to be mistreated by evil step sisters or clean up after their trifling asses. I want to be treated with kindness. I want someone who will think of me and then let me know they were thinking of me with a simple phone call or email. I want to sleep in on Saturday mornings and snuggle and spoon and just breathe. I want less drama. I want to be wanted.
I say all of that to say again, I don’t want to be exposed, out on a limb by myself. I want a partnership. To show you that I can live a little, LOL. I know I declined your previous invitation, but I’d like you to go away with me for a weekend. Perhaps we can steal a little time away to just breathe, together.
Email sent, I decided to expend a little physical energy in the backyard. Coco agreed. Once I opened the door, she shot straight out to chase a squirrel who dared to scavenge in her domain. I hadn’t walked my garden in forever. I laughed to myself—you have been a little busy! Next time T stayed over, I would serve a meal out here under the pergola. It was pretty festive in the evening with lights strung around the walls and trees.
Plumes of dust were sent airborne as I beat the patio furniture cushions together. I had neglected the trice weekly container watering, so I gave each flowerpot of geraniums, marigolds, and nasturtiums a drenching shower. I swept pine needles from the outdoor rugs and shifted tchotchkes back into their varied places.
The late afternoon sun was bright and beginning to lower as I continued my day long reflections. I lounged in one of the wicker easy chairs and looked around the patio space I had finished cleaning. I came back to the question, ‘what did a model couple, gay or straight, look like?’ Hell, gay or lesbian, it was so hard to be who you were, less known a model couple. There was so much pressure to conform to societal norms to avoid fire and brimstone, being fired, and our eyes brimming with tears. Quite a bit of energy was spent on the basic act of existing and surviving, much less thriving.
But the skeptic in me was alive and well. No rational person should read very much into their feelings for someone who seemingly appeared out of thin air. Nonetheless, I found myself longing to be with T and laughing with her and doing absolutely, positively nothing...with her. Especially after our glorious night and morning together, why wouldn’t I have feelings for her?
I shouldn’t be pining for some woman that I met at the Harbor by happenstance. Or was it happenstance if I call myself a believer in the divine order of the universe? Who made the rules and why did I feel obligated to follow them? I was grown.
Why couldn’t I want to want T? Was that insane? To answer this—like other questions I have had in my life—it came down to precise, unbiased, scientific data. I picked up a Shasta daisy growing along the garden retaining wall and plucked petals from the stem.
I want her, I want her not, I want her...