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Tuesday, Wednesday, and then Thursday rolled by with no word from Travis. It was ingrained in me by my mother never to call a boy, but I couldn’t hold out. He hadn’t been at work and I had no clue whether we were still getting together on Friday. I toyed with the notion all day on Thursday whether to send a friendly text. Dating was so incredibly difficult. Sometimes I wondered whether it was worth even dating at all. You want the joy of anticipation of seeing someone, yet also have the agony of wondering whether you’ll get stood up.
Thursday night was long. I, once again, sat on the couch with the phone resting next to me on the center cushion. I checked it several times to ensure the ringer was on. I tried not to look at it. I picked it up. I put it down. Finally, I gave up and took two Benadryl and watched American Greed waiting for sweet sleep to come upon me. This episode was about a gentleman, a fine gentleman, a pillar in the community, who operated a Ponzi scheme, lost all the money, and tried to disappear before the FBI caught up with him. He had thought since it would be a victimless crime since he only sought investors who were businesses and charities, he would see no prison time. Interestingly, though, it was a Class A felony.
As the Benadryl began to work its magic, I climbed into bed and slid the phone under the covers on the empty man side of my bed, hoping not to hear it buzz. I was tired of waiting, but couldn’t turn it off, because I needed the alarm. Sleep came fast and so did that morning alarm, loud and strong somewhere down in the sheets. I slid my hands around until I had pulled it out and lo and behold, he had texted at 12:38 a.m. All it said was 6:00 tomorrow, 11013 Tranquil Lake Blvd. Then, when I didn’t respond, I had received a second text a ½ hour later – “???” I had spent all night waiting for him and then he couldn’t wait thirty minutes. I could only hope that tomorrow night would be more fun than these last three days. I realized I just didn’t trust him, which is why I had so much anxiety. I couldn’t explain why. I just didn’t.
I texted back asking what I could bring, and he responded within two minutes, “Absolutely nothing.”
I googled his address and viewed the location in both map form and street view. My father told me never to date a boy because he drove a nice car, but he never said anything about dating a boy with a nice house. Travis lived in a gorgeous A-frame. You couldn’t see much on street view because he lived in a wooded, serene area, but if you enlarged the map, you could see the second story had ornate stained-glass windows.
Friday rolled by fairly quickly. We were confirmed, I knew where he lived so I wouldn’t be late, and I donned matching underwear, just in case. I hadn’t planned on any intimate situations, but I also knew it was just a matter of time. It wasn’t my parents who taught me to wear matching underwear. All my mom had to say on that matter was to wear nice underwear, because you’ll never know when you’ll get in a car accident and your most personal areas would be exposed to ‘God and creation.’ It was my dear friend Monica who enlightened me regarding the benefits of always matching—Monica who got pregnant at 17 and had been married for 15. Sometimes that woman did amuse me. Now here I was driving to a man’s house I am irresistibly attracted to, wearing silky undergarments a lovely shade of periwinkle, and thinking of Monica.
I pulled in the drive and he was standing at the edge of his deck waiting for me. The house at the top of a steep ravine, and the deck, which wrapped around the front, was perched precariously over the edge. Although the lot was small, foliage abounded creating a quiet, secluded atmosphere. He was holding two wine glasses and smiling. It was only 6:00. We got off work at 5:00. I had no clue how he could look so prepared and so relaxed in such a small amount of time. He was simply amazing.
I walked up to meet him, and he handed me a glass of merlot and kissed me gently on the lips. I followed him around the deck. We didn’t go inside. He had a charcoal grill prepped and ready to fire up with two chairs nearby and a small table between them. There was a slight chill in the air, and he sensed I was a bit uncomfortable. He opened the sliding glass door, darted in the house, and retrieved a light jacket. I stood while he placed it around my shoulders.
“Sit, Chloe,” he said, motioning toward one of the chairs.
“What can I do to help?” I said, still standing.
“Absolutely nothing,” he replied. I couldn’t help but picture him wearing absolutely nothing. It was human nature. Any woman in my situation would do the same. I’m a woman. He’s a man. We were alone. We were drinking wine. I was wearing his jacket.
I sat in the chair nearest the grill, and he hurried into the house. Moments later he returned with a warm baby brie cheese wedge and crackers. Goodness, this guy knew what he was doing, and it was working. He seemed happy, glad to be living in that moment, and so was I.
He lit the charcoal and joined me in the other chair.
“Now we’ve got some time to talk. Do you like to talk, Chloe? I love a good conversation,” he said, swirling his merlot, looking out at the trees.
He was standing up before I had a chance to respond. “Would you like to see the house?” he said.
“Sure,” I responded.
He gave me the full tour. “This is the living room,” he began. I looked up and the stained-glass windows were more beautiful than I imagined. The colors were varied and complemented the natural wood floors and light-colored sectional.
“Thank God I purchased fabric protection and a stain warranty for the sectional,” he said, noticing that I was looking that direction, “A squirrel somehow got in, walked across that beam near the ceiling and made a true mess of things. Imagine me trying to explain to the furniture company that a squirrel had made a stain and I needed it cleaned. They tried not to honor the warranty, stating that furniture is meant for indoor use, as if I’m an idiot. I had to have my lawyer give them a little call to resolve the matter. It pays to have a good lawyer, Chloe. Remember that.”
“That open space in the corner is where the recliner goes. I’m still waiting for it to be delivered. I ordered it six months ago – SIX MONTHS AGO – from the Scandinavian furniture store over on 26th Street. Chloe, they’ve been telling me for SIX MONTHS it’s ‘on the boat.’ They must think I’m a fool.”
“Why don’t you call your lawyer about that chair or just ask for a refund?” I said. He’d call a lawyer about a stain, but not about a chair that’s been on a boat for six months.
“Because I want that chair. It’s the perfect piece for this room. It the softest leather, the creamiest cream color. I absolutely love it, want it, and have to have it.”
He turned from that space, took a quick breath and a sip of wine, and headed upstairs assuming I would follow. The second story consisted of a quaint loft area and two small bedrooms. The light peeked in through skylights in each bedroom making each seem like the perfect getaway. They weren’t furnished and clearly weren’t used.
He then escorted me to the master bedroom, which was back downstairs in the rear of the home. The furniture was a sleek, cherry wood, Scandinavian.
“They had this in stock,” he said, running his fingers along the headboard, “This furniture arrived within days. It’s not fancy, but does the trick,” he said.
He opened a sliding glass door off his bedroom, waited for me to proceed, and then followed me into a large glass-enclosed room with an indoor hot tub that seated at least eight. The room had clear windows from floor to ceiling. I could see the stars at night, yet still enjoy the seclusion provided by the mature trees surrounding it in the yard outside.
“Sometimes I turn down the temperature and watch football in this thing. Do you watch football, Chloe?” he asked.
I’m not sure if he really wanted an answer, but I responded anyway. “Sometimes.” Watching football wasn’t my favorite past-time activity, but sitting naked in a hot tub with a hot man was.
Like a light bulb, he remembered the grill and quickly proceeded back to the deck. “Sit sit sit,” he said, pointing to my chair, “Your job is to relax and keep me company while I slave away.”
He filled my wine glass and commenced to grill hamburgers and corn. While he cooked, he gave commentary, much like Bobby Flay, only he was more handsome than Bobby and far more charismatic. I knew he was talking, but I couldn’t hear a word he was saying.
After our dinner, he noticed I was shivering. “C’mon Miss Chloe. Let’s go sit on the squirrel’s couch. I have a secret to tell you.”
We sat on the couch, not forgetting our wine glasses. He brought the bottle and topped me off. I worried about the wine spilling on the creamy white couch and sat there wondering where to put the glass. He leaned over, took the glass, and stretched his arm across me to the end table. He knew what he was doing. He set the glass on the table, but his body remained on top of me. He had a scent. It was subtle yet potent. I breathed heavy. I breathed in and didn’t want to exhale. I wanted to keep that toxic scent inside of me. I was getting high. I was also getting a little drunk. He pressed his hips into me. I became his puppet. I had no will power to resist and no desire spurn his advances.
Our lips met and met and met again. The beauty of the moment was our mutual desire. My yearning for satisfaction was equal to his quest to fulfill the lust that was so evident.
“Come with me,” he whispered, taking my hand, obviously intending to lead me to his bedroom.
As if a record had scratched to a halt at an 8th grade dance, my practical nature brought me back to reality. I couldn’t do this. It was too soon. Carnal desire could not trump the knowledge of the consequences associated with such an act. Experience taught me that I’m not capable of physical intimacy without an emotional connection. Yet at this moment, my body currently told me otherwise. My head was losing the physical war building up within me.
He drew me in at the waist, pulled me in front of him, and guided me slowly to his bedroom. Soft kisses at the nape of my neck sent electricity to the bottom of my feet. We headed forward, two soon to become one, anticipating the most natural act. Still, I was fearful of the hurt that would come from giving myself in such an intimate manner to someone I hardly knew.
We entered the room and the closer we got to the bed, the more reluctant I was to do this thing. “Travis, I need just one moment, okay?” I said as I hurried off to the bathroom, not waiting for an answer.
I shut the door and stood in the bathroom, starting at myself in the mirror, wanting to talk myself out of this. I took note of this amazingly perfect bathroom, sparkling, almost dazzling, ever mindful this was the bathroom of a bachelor. Bachelors don’t have such immaculate bathrooms. I peaked in the top drawer and see the typical grooming items: toothpaste, deodorant, razor, condoms. Then I realized I hadn’t even thought about protection. Clearly, he was prepared, but I am not. I’m not sure how to handle the awkward moment that was soon to follow. I couldn’t very well march out of his bathroom with a condom in my hand and say, “Uh, yeah, I was snooping in your drawers and found your condoms, so here you are pal.”
Instead, I flushed the toilet I hadn’t used, waited a few seconds, opened the door, and joined him on the bed. He sensed my reluctance, slowed the pace, and rolled me away from him. He scooted up behind me and wrapped his arm around me. We laid on the bed spooning, enjoying the comfort of one warm body pressed against the other, not saying a word. He began to grow but didn’t press the issue. He didn’t hide it either by pulling away. He waited patiently for me to respond.
Resistance was no longer possible. I turned toward him, and he responded firmly yet gently by lifting himself on top of me. He was clearly in charge and I was too weak from desire to withstand his advances. Part of me wanted to just enjoy the moment. Life is full of firsts and firsts only come once. We remember first moments, first glances, first kisses, first dates, first moments of ecstasy. I decided at that moment not to let this first moment be ruined by some bout of morality and gave into his desires.
His hands had the uncanny ability to remove my clothes while at the same time, his lips were able to remain locked with mine. I couldn’t help but wonder how many women he had slept with to perfect this technique. My mind raced wondering what they were like, why he wasn’t with them, where they were now. Clearly, he wasn’t thinking of who I had been with. He was singularly focused on that one act as he ran his hands over my breasts and down my waist.
Magically while I was envisioning him in passionate embraces with other women, he had managed to not only remove my clothes, but also his own. I felt his smooth, warm skin. His arms were toned, tan, perfect. His chest was not too large and not too small. Something about that man was different than any other I had been with, but I couldn’t pin it down. Yes, he had a six pack; yes, there was no fat; yes, he was more than handsome. I ran my hand down around him and felt it – his first imperfection – stubble. Yes, Travis Trammell had stubble on his shoulder blades. I was in bed with a man who manscaped. How could I ever go back to a hairy soft monkey again after having experienced manscaping? What would he be like in ten years? Would he still shave all that gray hair? How much hair did he have?”
As we moved closer in our embrace, I quietly whispered in his ear, “Condom.” I said no more than that. I knew he had them and I knew where they were. He would oblige without excuse.
Instead of heading for that bathroom, he leaned over and opened his nightstand drawer. I peaked at the contents as he retrieved the one condom it contained and noticed a small gun resting beside it, waiting for use. I’d never seen a gun up close before. It frightened me. He closed the drawer and tore open the wrapper with his teeth. I was distracted by the gun as he handed me the condom.
He rolled on his back, ready to receive. “OK baby. Do it slow. Make me want you,” he said as I fumbled with the slimy thing.
The more I tried, the more I failed. It slipped out of my fingers and landed on his stomach. He started to wilt as he looked down at the manipulated latex. Things were not happening for us the way one might imagine. This simply wasn’t the moment. I wanted out. I wanted to leave.
He grabbed the condom and tried earnestly to apply it to his shrinking part. I laid next to him, unsure of what my role was in this awkward moment. After it was clear he would be unsuccessful and clearer that I no longer had the desire to assist, he rolled away from me, looked closely at the condom, and said, “MMM. We are out of luck, sweetheart. Condom’s now got a hole and that’s my last one.”
I don’t tolerate lies. Lies, no matter how small, create distrust. Relationships are built on trust. With trust comes freedom. In this moment, however, I was just as guilty. I could not readily admit I’d been snooping and sweetly remind him he has an entire box in the bottom drawer in his bathroom. Further, the moment was past. There was no going back. I had the sin of omission and he had the sin of commission. There was balance. Isn’t balance the true quest in all things human?
As I was deep in thought rationalizing the whole experience, he had snuggled up beside me and was staring at me. “Pillow talk time. Do you want to know my secret now?” he asked, looking pleased that the moment had passed.
I was distracted by that phrase, ‘pillow talk time.’ Men don’t say that. He was a manscaping hard body who used words like ‘pillow talk’ and flew pink kites. He was an enigma; he was my challenge. This metro man was capturing my heart, slowly but surely.
This time he didn’t yell my name to wake me up from my trance as he did on our first lousy date. He had softened. Laying naked in bed he was real, authentic, vulnerable. He kindly laid there and waited for me to gather my thoughts, come back to reality.
“Yes, Travis. It would be my honor to know your secret,” I said, not looking at his eyes, but watching my hands rub gently back and forth starting at this shoulder, sliding down his side, his waist, his hips and back again.
“You have to remember, though, secrets are forever. I tell you my secrets and you tell me yours. This will always bond us. No matter what happens between us, we never disclose a secret. Do you understand what I’m saying, Chloe?”
“You have my solemn vow,” I said, replacing my hand on his side with my lips kissing his shoulder, his ribs, his waist, his hip.
“Chloe, I mean this. Do you promise?” he said, sitting up on his elbow, grabbing my attention.
“Yes, Travis. I promise.”
And then he began. “I was twelve, Chloe, when it happened. I took my shotgun and was headed out the back door for the woods behind our house.”
“Wait. Didn’t you grow up in a neighborhood? Why would you have a loaded shotgun laying around? Why would a twelve-year-old have a shotgun?” He had only shared one sentence of his story and already there where holes in his story.
“All right. I’ll answer your questions and then you’ll have to try and not interrupt. This is important. Okay?”
“Fine. Please. Go ahead. I’m listening,” I replied, quite curious as to where this was headed.
“Okay. Yes, I lived in Parkwood Hills. Have you heard of it? It’s a nice neighborhood. Mom still lives there. We’ll go for dinner sometime. My house used to back up to the woods. There’s another neighborhood back there now, but back in the 80s, there were acres and acres of woods. Now – as for the gun, Chloe, you’re not from here. Everyone here owns guns. It’s more natural to own a gun than not own a gun.”
“Why?” I had to know. He was right. I was from the city. The only people who owned guns were thugs.
“Hhhh.” He was clearly frustrated with my innocence as to the culture of those who live in a town surrounded by fields and forest.
“People hunt here, Chloe. We hunt. Also, guns are our God given right for protection.”
He spoke this as if it were a verse from the Holy Bible, Gospel of Mark. Clearly guns were as much as part of his lifestyle as dinner parties with wine and pate were a part of mine. I pictured his descendants with loaded shot guns under the beds of their white farmhouses in the middle of nowhere. In that situation, guns made sense.
“May I proceed?” he asked.
“Of course. I’ll be quiet now.”
“Where was I?” He’d only told one sentence of his story. It was easy for me to remember.
“You were going out the back door with a shot gun.”
“Oh yeah. Right. I was twelve. That’s important Chloe. I was twelve.”
“Twelve.”
“Yes. So, I’m headed through the woods. I usually would just look for old cans or bottles or trash and shoot at them. I’m pretty good with a gun. We’ll go shooting some time.”
“No, we won’t.”
“Yes, Chloe, we will. You need to learn to shoot a gun. Back to my story. So, I’m walking along and run into my two buddies, Scott and Ryan.”
I had to interrupt. This sounded so dangerous. Twelve-year-olds should not be left to roam with guns in the woods on their own. What kind of parents would allow this? “If you were going shooting and they were also going shooting, wasn’t there some risk of accidentally shooting each other? Is this where the story is going? OH MY GOD, TRAVIS!”
“No, Chloe. You need to be patient. Here. Drink more wine.” He said as he handed me my wine glass. The last thing I needed was more wine, but I think he wanted to keep my mouth busy, so I obliged.
“Back to my story. Really, Chloe, you’re ruining the secret. So now the three of us are walking along. It was like that movie – what was it called – the one with the two Coreys... ‘Stand by Me,’ yeah. We were that close. Anyway, Ryan sees a crow down low in a tree up ahead of us. God it was an ugly crow. What is the purpose of a crow, Chloe? They sound ugly and they look ugly. Well, Ryan sees the crow and he looks straight at me and he says, ‘Shoot it. Shoot the son of a bitch.’ Ryan was a cusser. I wasn’t. My dad always told me that the sign of an empty mind was one that spewed filth because it didn’t have anything else inside of it. It’s low class to cuss Chloe. I sure hope you don’t.”
I had an issue with cussing, but I sure wasn’t going to tell him. I patiently waited for him to continue his story. I’d interrupted enough.
“So, he dares me to shoot the bird. We’d never shot at live animals before unless we were on real hunts with our dads. You know, deer, turkey, pheasant.”
I didn’t know. This was not appealing, but I was in deep and couldn’t stop now.
“Go on,” I said, knowing full well where the story was headed.
I couldn’t pass on a dare, Chloe. I’m competitive by nature. I just couldn’t. I lifted the gun, sighted the ugly beast, pulled the trigger, and watched it drop to the ground.
“Scotty began to freak out. ‘Travis, what the hell did you do? My dad said if we shoot it, we have to eat it. I ain’t eatin’ no crow, that’s for damn sure.’ Scotty was a cusser, too. I think they thought it was cool to cuss, but I knew it wasn’t, even at twelve. I was taught well. I had good parents. Anyway, Scotty is freaking out and I look over at Ryan and he’s trying to act cool, but I can see he’s gagging. He’s trying not to throw up. Ryan can’t show emotion because he was the one that dared me. “
He takes a sip of his wine and kisses me. “Now, do you want to know my secret?”
“You never told anyone that you shot the bird. Is that it, Travis? The three of you made a blood pact to never tell. That’s nice. Three guys who would share a secret all these years.” I said, trying to seem impressed.
“No Chloe. That’s not the point. Please don’t ruin this for me. I’ve not told this to anyone before. I pick you. Do you understand, I pick you.” He looked straight in my eyes. We were sharing an authentic moment. He wasn’t wanting anything from me but my trust and my attention and I was spoiling this for him.
“I’m so sorry. It must be the wine talking. Please do go on.” I was serious, too. I wasn’t patronizing him. I, too, was authentic in my intentions, as authentic as one could be while lying naked next to someone I barely knew.
“So, there was Ryan, trying not to get sick,” he resumed, “and Scotty worried about having to eat the thing.” And then he paused. I knew we were coming to the conclusion and I waited patiently this time, giving him the courage he needed to finish revealing his secret.
“And there I stood with my shotgun at my side feeling nothing. I felt nothing, Chloe. If I hadn’t run into Scotty and Ryan and had shot that bird on my own, I would have felt nothing and went home and had dinner and went to bed. It would have been just another day. But that day, I was with them and I saw they had feelings. It bothered them that shot that bird.”
“You took a life in an instant with the pop of a gun. Of course, it would bother them,” I said, thinking he needed to hear some sort of response because he’d been pausing so much.
“No, Chloe. You’re missing the point. I felt nothing. When I kill animals, I feel nothing. Something is wrong with me.”
Suddenly our conversation had gone deep. I had no response. He was right. Killing for sport is sick and sad. But what would I know? I didn’t grow up in this environment. My brother had a BB gun and, frankly, I’m not sure my parents allowed him to shoot it more than once or twice. Even BB guns were serious matters. I’d only seen it almost used one time when the neighbor’s cat sneaked in our house. My father loathed cats and grabbed that BB gun and chased it all through the house while the rest of us curled up on the couch and watched the chaos unfold. Even then, he never shot the gun. He merely chased the cat straight out the front door. Even my father, who found cats to be of no purpose whatsoever, still could not find it within him to even scare it with a BB gun, let alone kill it. No, I have nothing to base this on. I was no psychiatrist, but my intuition told me some essence of this story held meaning. Something was twisted here, yet I refused to admit it.
“Oh Travis,” I said, snuggling up as close as I could, “Don’t you see? You are self-aware. You remember that moment all these years later. This means it’s okay. You’re okay. Everything is okay. Kids do stupid things, and you are aware of it.”
“Let’s go to sleep, Chloe,” he interrupted, clearly indicating he was finished discussing the matter, “Next time it will be your turn to tell a secret.”
“Oh no. NO. Travis,” I said, in a bit of a panic, “I can’t stay. It isn’t right. I, I, have to go.”
I started to rise from the bed, and he quickly grabbed my wrist, “Don’t be ridiculous, Chloe. You’ve had too much to drink. You can’t leave now. Stay. Please. Just stay. I’ll be good. I promise.”
I felt like a whore, lower than a prostitute. Prostitutes at least get paid. I hadn’t done anything, but I almost had. We had no commitment. I had no idea of his intentions. Somehow the idea of pulling in my driveway in the morning made this all seem so torrid. What would I tell my neighbor’s children if they ran up as they always did first thing in the morning? Where would I say I’d been? Travis was absolutely right. I was still inebriated.
“I’ll stay, Travis.”
I lay back down on the bed and he rolled me away from him, spooned up to me perfectly, and within minutes, he was gently snoring in my ear. I had never fallen asleep quickly in my life. I envied him. How do people fall asleep so quickly? In fact, I thought about him all night long. Almost no sleep came for me. I spent some of the night wondering what he wanted from me and most of the night enjoying being intertwined with such a perfect body. After having had been so close to such an ideal form of a human being, how could I ever return to an average Joe with man tits and a paunchy belly? What could I ever do to keep Travis in my life? I wanted him more than any other man in the history of my 37 years.
I had at some point succumbed to slumber, because I awoke to an empty bed and the smell of bacon. The benefit of being with a man who had never married is that he is often adept at the domesticities historically befallen upon women. I arose, slipped on my top and panties, freshened up in the bathroom, and joined him in the kitchen. He is obviously a morning person, because breakfast was nearly served and a hot mug of coffee awaited me on the dining room table, another Scandinavian Furniture store cherry wood purchase.
“Good morning Miss Chloe,” he said as he piled the bacon in the pan with the eggs and carried it to the table.
“Good morning Mr. Travis. Thank you for this bountiful repast,” I said, trying to be cute.
“What?” he replied.
“Thanks for the food, Travis.”
“No reason to thank me. It’s morning. We have to eat.”
He then doled the food and earnestly began his breakfast. Clearly this was no time for chit chat. He was eating to live and not living to eat. My intuition told me if I didn’t do the same, I’d soon wear out my welcome.
We ate in silence and I rose to take my plate to the kitchen.
“Don’t worry about picking up. Maria comes on Monday. She’ll get them.”
He has a maid. He lives on a lake. He has an Audi. I was beginning to seriously wonder where all the money came from to afford this easy lifestyle. We lived in a small town. Owning a few commercial buildings on the side wouldn’t bring in the kind of money required to maintain this standard of living.
“Okay. Well, I’ll just go back and finish dressing. I’ve got a busy day ahead,” I said. I didn’t have a busy day. I had nothing planned, in fact but clearly, he was ready for my departure.
“Sounds good,” he said, as he continued eating.
I went back in his bedroom and the morning sun was shining in, enabling me to get a view of the room with a little more light from the night before. That’s when I saw it. It was so big, I don’t know how I missed it from the night before. A huge safe stood in the front corner of the room. It was taller than I was, probably six feet in height and four feet wide. I’m usually quite good at minding my own business. My mother taught me a long time ago that “If it ain’t your opera, don’t mess with the tenors.” Well, this wasn’t my opera, but I was suddenly obsessed to know what was in that safe. I couldn’t outright ask. It was so large, it reminded me of Al Capone’s vault that Geraldo Rivera made such a big deal of in the 1980s. We all tuned in to find out what was in that vault only to be disappointed to learn it held nothing. In this case, though, I was absolutely certain Travis’ safe was full of all sorts of interesting secrets.
“Yo, Chloe, what’s taking so long in there?”
The rude man was back. That was certainly my cue to leave.
I quickly pulled on my jeans and retrieve my socks from the squirrel couch.
I walked over and gave him a quick kiss. “Well, gotta go,” I said, “Call me, okay.”
The line was trite, but I had no other exit language. I wanted to get out before he said something positively awful that would ruin such a nice evening.
I was a bit surprised, though, when he stood, pulled me close, kissed me tenderly, and said, “Well, if you must go, I understand.”
Frankly, I wanted to laugh. He wanted me gone and was just being polite. I held back the laughter long enough to receive a soft and tender kiss. That kiss was the perfect way to end our time together. I backed away, smiled, lifted my hand to signal my goodbye and left.
The worst part about dating is the moment I leave. I always have this nagging feeling that despite how well a date goes, I wonder if that is the last date I’ll ever have with that person. It’s happened before. I get wined and dined and never called again. I assume they didn’t die. In this case, I’ll know he didn’t die. I’ll see him at work in the kitchen, in the hall, in the elevator, leaning on the copy machine. I’ll be constantly reminded of his rejection on a daily basis. I may even have the misfortune to witness him meeting another girl at the parking garage trash can. She’ll be his latest conquest and I’ll be the trash. This is how the mind wanders when dating. Dating is torture. If we could just do lunch and then five minutes later decide that we are in a committed relationship where we’ll see each other every day, yet not smother each other, life would be utterly perfect. We’ll maintain our own identifies, but meld into one unit as a couple. Dating is purgatory. It’s a weigh station between heaven and hell. One can ascend to couple bliss or descend into the nightmare of rejection. A fine line exists between smothering the one you are pursuing versus letting too much time pass before the next date is agreed upon. With the myriad ways a new relationship can fail, it’s a wonder any dating couple manages to move toward a monogamous relationship.