Under any other circumstances, I would have refused his offer. I am not a casual woman and I don’t do casual affairs. It’s not my style. But the combination of the man, his timing and those invisible cicadas made me think that maybe I should play a different role for a change. Maybe I would even like it.

The truth is, I thought I could do it because this man doesn’t inspire me to write.

With others, I could find a story in every lingering gaze. He doesn’t look at me that way. He hasn’t even seen Me through the cloud of alcohol and debauchery that is his life. So he doesn’t inspire me to write about his lines or his kisses. There is no pushing or pulling. There is no story here.

He is merely an interruption. He does not inspire words because there are none with him. There are no sounds because his want is on mute. I can’t colour him because he is the very definition of black: he is the absence of any colour. He doesn’t inspire me to write which means that he must not inspire me to feel either.

I like that: it is safe.

(If only it was true.)

See, when I hear of his other women, accidentally slipped into casual conversation, I bite my bottom lip and flinch. It is reactionary, from those collective experiences that have left me feeling that I will never be a man’s priority. I am just one of many options. When I learn that he dates other women, I dig my nails into my arm to brace myself for the punch that follows in my gut. It is a gag reflex; I want to be a protagonist even in a story that has no story. And when I learn that I won’t even be auditioned for the part of the female lead, it stings.

But those long minutes of flinching, stinging and self-imposed scratching are to be expected. My ego is fragile after the perceived rejections I’ve faced over the last six years. And I’ve been scared and I’ve been bitter and I’ve been angry and I’ve been neurotic and I’ve pushed people away when I wanted to pull them in and when it mattered I pulled too hard and it all unraveled. I even stopped breathing for awhile. I refused to go outside and play. And when I did, I held onto skirts and hands and stayed close to home. And then I flew out and, without any consideration for the drop, I jumped. I chose to fall into this plot-less story as if I was a book with a hard spine.

The truth is, I am not.

I am not old receipts thrown away and then fished out again to use as scrap. I am paper thin. I am loose pages of a manuscript in the wind. I may tear and I may crumple and I may rip easily, but I have value. I can float and I can do casual.

But I am not a casual woman.

And the reason he doesn’t inspire me to write is because he does not recognize that difference.

I’m the one who wrote you love letters. The one that reminded you of Demi Moore. You held my hand so gently. I’m certain that if I had stayed you would have been just as gentle with my heart. You could; we were only 14 years old.

I’m the one who said, “A final question. Do you like avocado?” “Yes” you said. “You’re perfect.” I replied. I’m also the one you lied to so easily. Allegiance to avocado is no longer a deal breaker, but being lied to is.

I’m the one that loved you. “You’re the one” you wrote to me on the back of a postcard. Later, I was the one who cried, “I’ll always love you, even if you don’t.” You didn’t. And now, I don’t.

I’m the one who let you kiss me on the steps of a dorm room. I’m the one who ushered you in hips swaying and then promptly shoved you back out the door. I wasn’t ready for the weight of a different man on me.

I’m the one in the red dress with the ruby lily in her hair. The one that dumped you over a cup of coffee (that you paid for).  I always have trouble remembering your name.

I’m the one who fell off the step machine when you walked into the room. I’m also the one that slammed her head into the locker door when you asked me for my name. You made me so nervous.

I’m the one that slipped you my number in a matchbox. The one you called ‘deceptively petite’. The one that stopped waiting for you (or thinking about you) a long time ago.

I’m the one that you helped with the New York Times Crossword every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday night. The one you kissed when the lights went out. When the lights came back on, I was nibbling on a pencil, forehead furrowed, happily completing the crossword alone.

I’m the one you nicknamed ‘Gazelle’. The one you wanted to see every single day until the day you didn’t. I’m the one that is over you.

I’m the one you shouldn’t have kissed. I’m also the one that likes a man who follows through. You never did. I’m the one that walked away, looked back for just a moment and then remembered that I am a woman that does.

I’m the one with the long, brown hair and the blunt fringe. I am the one sitting in a corner of a room quietly hoping that you’ll find me and see me and sit with me for awhile.

And then I won’t be the one that says, ‘Remember me’. Then I’ll be the one who whispers in your ear,

‘Remember when…’

(Revised and updated from the original)

…trust without being given a reason to trust first.

…believe in the literal meaning of words flung together and whispered across naked skin.

…look for answers in the night; particularly when my eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness yet.

…hope that I would be missed. Eventually.

…forget about the past.

…envy a life I would never want for myself.

…expect nothing. (Even a null expectation is an expectation.)

…compromise my wants and needs for a roaming hand on my bare thigh.

…like it.

…resist writing about all this fire inside me.

…think I had nothing to say.

Your turn. I should know better than to…?

“Be still when you have nothing to say; when genuine passion moves you, say what you’ve got to say, and say it hot.”

D.H Lawrence

I’m going to be still for awhile. But, I’ll be back.

A year ago today, in this very minute, I was getting ready to go on this date.

It was –and still is– the best first date of my entire life.

Sometimes, I cannot reconcile the two men; the man who was on that date with me, and the man who eventually broke up with me. How could they be the same person? Sometimes, I cannot reconcile the two points; how could a beginning with that much potential have such a pedestrian ending?

But, today, is not the day to re-question all of that. The answers are as unknowable to me as the date of my next best date.

All I can do today is read back on that day and take comfort in the knowledge that a year ago last week I had no inkling that my life was about to change. I didn’t know that on that next Tuesday, my hair would be straight and my heart would be skewed to happy. I couldn’t imagine that I was about to experience the elusiveness of a reciprocated crush.

It’s kind of like the way I feel now, today, this very minute: I have no idea what will happen tomorrow.

And I like it.

I own a pair of plastic shoes. With metal studs.

(Yes, before you ask, I was possessed.)

Nothing else can possibly explain this:

To be fair, I have never worn them. It appears I only practice good judgment after I have handed over my credit card. (Um…Reason #3, 488 I’m still single?)

Do you have any items in your closet that cause you to pause and say, ‘What the hell was I thinking?’

Your weekend project is to crawl into your wardrobe, find your tackiest pair of shoes, accessories, clothes WHATEVER and then head over to the Hope Dies Last Facebook Page here and upload your photo in the super, cool album I’ve aptly titled ‘WTF?!’

Let’s share in mutual embarrassment, shall we?

I read all your comments and I read all your emails and most of the time they make me smile so broadly that all you would see, if you could see, is gum and teeth. My real, spontaneous smile is dorky. But sometimes, your comments and your emails, make me sad. Because you, and you and you relate to some of the more painful seconds of my life.I hate that.

No matter our combined experiences, I grip onto hope because I have no other choice.  Hope has saved me from becoming stone hard, and cynical.  Sometimes, hope has tortured me and keeps me back; thinking of situations long past their expiration date. Very rarely, hope eludes me. And when it does, when I can no longer see or hear or feel hope, when I am no longer able to find inspiration, I read some words that a friend once penned with me in mind:

Hope fades.

It seeps through every crack until it doesn’t have enough to glow, and I know
that you’re tired. I see the blinds come over your eyes when you’re through with
looking out for that night-light you can keep in your pocket all the time.
Don’t put down that red lip-stick, don’t you dare. You need to draw
eyes to your lips because that is where people see your sunrising soul-
through your wise words and quirky quips,
the quick curve of your smile.

Hope fades, but it never dies.
You taught me that.

I will never put down that red lip-stick. (OK, maybe I will. But only to replace it with my pink one): don’t you dare put it down either.

Share with me, what inspires you to hold out for hope?

…I’d start by flipping it the right way up; it’s been upside down for way too long.  (Better Off Ted was cancelled and Two and a Half Men is still on the air? Seriously?)

…it would be compulsory for talented, ambitious, hard workers to have actual, paying jobs.

…gentle, well intentioned, well timed honesty would be held to a higher esteem than comfortable, easy to handle lies.

…women that pretend to be dumb to get ahead would be locked up.

…men that pretend to want a relationship to get laid, would join them. (Y’all can procreate together.)

…we would travel by teleportation.

…the unattached would wear rings. (I think we are the ones that need to recognize each other far more than marrieds do.)

…there would be fines for those who do not reply to text messages, emails and phone calls. (I’d be über fair though. The statute of limitations on this would be one year.)

…pink shirts on straight men would be illegal; punishable by public mocking.

…witty, devilish, intelligent, sarcastic, responsible, available men would have NO CHOICE but to be insanely attracted to me.

What would you do if you ruled the world?

(Inspired by Stacy over at Chasing Paradise)

Recently, I was told that I come across as a bit of a man-hater. Had I been on my game I would have responded, ‘Man-hater? Pah! I’m a people-hater!’ Alas, I was tired, a little disoriented and what with the ex-lover sitting at the next table and all–a lot defensive. My mock outrage felt scripted.

‘What? No. Way. I. love. men?’

Admittedly, men do piss me off more often than not. But there is one little attribute that most men possess, that I not only love and admire, but also envy — their simplicity. I wish I could be simple. I wish my brain worked that way. However, as hard as I try, I will never go from A to  B without a maze of torturous thought. I like men because they manage to reign me in and balance me out.

Take for example the way I processed my last break-up.

I spent some time with a man that made me believe in men again and then he put an end to it. It was a short conversation and no explanation was given other than ‘It’s over. Let’s be friends.’ My mind screamed, why won’t he give me a reason? Why won’t he talk to me? I was told, early on, by a man that: “It is over. He just wants to be kind now.”

I just want him to be honest.

I would sit with my girlfriend’s in the first few weeks after the demise and we would discuss it all; in every excruciating detail. When I was alone, it was my mind.

I just want him to tell me what I did wrong.

I believed my thoughts could be  retroactive. If only I had done this, if only I had done that, it would have worked out. But pretty soon, someone would tell me that I did nothing wrong and that he is an idiot.

I just want him to feel regret.

My life went on and I met many men; some of them even gave me a little bit of attention.

I just want him to see how other men see me.

Time trickled by and I forgot the colour of his eyes.  I cooled down, I understood, I didn’t blame. I just kinda missed him.

I just want him to talk to me.

But he didn’t for his own reasons. And so, gracefully,  I forced myself to move on.

I just want him to be happy.

It was, of course,  only partly true. I wanted him to be happy as long as I was happy too. But he moved on and fell in love and I didn’t. This turn of events left me unmoved but gave me the motivation to get over it.

I just want him to have never existed in the first place.

Months later, I bumped into him and he looked at me in a way that he shouldn’t look at me. And he touched my arm and then said, ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t touch you.’ It was confusing. So I began to talk and talk and talk again. I got angry. How dare he? Who does he think he is? How can he treat me in this way? Then I realized that I never meant a thing to him and that he doesn’t think about me and that it is indeed over (it had been from the day it was actually over) and there is no drama here, no profound explanation for the end, no out of the ordinary experience. It was an ending just like all those other endings and the only sure thing about all endings is that they’re a preclude to a beginning. And so finally, ten months later, my delayed thoughts aligned with his.

I just want him to be kind.

I don’t hate men. I adore them. I love their simplicity. I want them in my life, I need them in my life because when I let them, they make me simple too.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation, but would you pretend to be into me? Just for tonight?’

The words are out of my mouth before I am aware if I am being serious. He agrees immediately with true sportsmanship and a laugh. ‘Move closer then.’  I shift my chair, my body and my hair toward him; small cues that I hope another man will pick up on. See, I’ve watched this other man flirt, I’ve watched him exchange numbers, I’ve watched him be a ‘we’ and for the longest time I’ve sat alone or next to a girl friend, my eyes sparkling with a furiously false indifference, quietly losing the inevitable battle that arises between two ex-lovers.

But tonight I’ve got a man sitting next to me. He is dark, unshaven, and obscenely funny. His smile is cheeky; the only common attribute between them. Besides their naughty twin grins, they are mirror opposites.  I would be an idiot if I didn’t take advantage of this. I would be an idiot if I don’t pretend, just for one evening, that I’m wanted. And now my rented man is telling me that the other one is sneaking glances in my direction. ‘I’m not going to get beat up am I?’

I shake my head. He doesn’t even reply to my emails. Why would he punch for me? ‘Well, he’s definitely looking at you.’ My back is turned, I can’t confirm this. I’m flipping my hair and crossing my legs. I’m pretending that I want this other man. It’s not hard. It’s transference. I just take all that unreasonable and unfinished want from my right and direct it to my left. I rest my chin onto my hand and cock my head to the side, pretending adoration. But I’m not listening to a word. Why is he looking at me?

Later, I ask the same question out loud; I’m only half hoping for an answer. The ones I get aren’t helpful because it doesn’t even matter. He can look all he wants because all he will see is this facade; this lie I built to convince him that I’ve moved on, past him, sitting next to someone better.

I see the truth though. I won’t care for the reason he still looks at me until the day I don’t have to ask a man to pretend to be into me.