What can I say? I was desperately lonely at the time.
I learned that meeting for coffee was the way to go. It was a public space, just shallow enough for a meet and greet, just long enough to feel out whether there might be any chemistry, and it was short enough to afford either party a quick escape if need be. Dinner was too much of an investment, first off; a movie didn’t afford an opportunity to talk.
I had two dates of note, neither that close together. Both began in much the same way. I found the other on “Friend finder,” I reached out and we messaged a few times. When it seemed we had enough of a rapport to warrant exchanging ICQ or email addresses, we did, and we took it from there. Yes, this is going back some. But that’s what memories are, going back some.
The first was tall, dark, black haired and a little older. I suspect that her hair had a little help. Hair needs that later on, or so girls tend to believe. She was divorced. She had a child, not a baby, a child. Coffee was good. Conversation was easy. I suggested another coffee date. She suggested a movie. She suggested we go back to her place after the movie.
I recall her paying the babysitter. I recall her daughter peering down from the stairs. I recall a drink, a few passionate moments on the couch. I recall her daughter calling down to her in the midst of it, necessitating a hasty, rather red-faced retreat. The mood cooled somewhat afterwards. We sipped our wine. My eyes swept over her living space. She had a decorator’s eye. She admitted as much, speaking on how she loved to choose paint colours and sometimes painted twice a year, experimenting with hue and texture. I thought that a lot of work. I noticed that she owned a lot of stuff, none of it cheap. We kissed again, the coals stoked, the fires rekindled, and at the white hot heat of it, she backed away, calling for a stop, long before buttons were popped or snaps unfastened, long before hands might have slipped beneath clothing, at least by me, but not before my shirttails were pulled free.
I stopped. My heart was racing, but I stopped. Panting, I collected myself, re-tucked and straightened. Now I was never often in the thick of it, most certainly never driven to the brink and then told to stop. That was new. And I wondered why; I thought it might have been because it was too much, too fast, too quick; but I hadn’t set the pace. Then again, I hadn’t weathered a marriage and divorce, either, so I could only imagine what subtext she might be bringing to the table or failing to bury.
I also wondered how soon I was supposed to call, knowing that it would be at least a week, what with my starting Afternoons that week. I decided to split the middle, messaging her Wednesday, typing out what I thought was the usual and expected. I had a nice time. I’d like to see you again. I hope we can go out again soon. I’m free this Saturday, if you’ve a mind to.
She took her sweet time responding. Thanks, but no thanks, she messaged back. I was a little surprised. I was a little shocked. I had no idea what to make of it all. I messaged her back, asking what I had done wrong, but I received no answer. Looking back, I wonder still; but I also can’t help but think that I ought to thank my lucky stars. Had I dodged a bullet? Had I been spared a high maintenance drama queen? Or had I actually done something wrong. I don’t know. Indeed, I’ll never know. And as time passed, I ceased to care
I met Beverly in the same manner. Friend finder, ICQ, coffee. I was 35, weeks
before turning 36. It was just before Christmas, just before I was due to go to
Egypt, just before I had finally quit smoking.
That deserves description. I’d been smoking for about sixteen years and like
most smokers, I’d tried to quit a few times, but I’d lacked the resolve. It was
the same story, time and again: I’d quit, I’d smell someone’s smoke and I’d
break down, bumming one; I’d feel guilty straight off the first drag, but I’d
be back to a pack a day within the month, just the same.
But this time was different, this time I’d given myself a scare. I was walking home after a night out at Casey’s. I was following my old route, for nostalgia’s sake, despite its adding some time to my trek to Victoria. It wasn’t cold; a gentle, early winter snow was cascading about me. I lit a smoke. I never felt better. Then I didn’t.
A hot poker stabbed me in the chest. I bent double, then crouched low, thinking
that I was having a heart attack. It can’t be, I thought. I’m too young! But
that sharp stab said otherwise, and what I thought didn’t matter, not in the
least. I remained crouched, half expecting that I’d flop over on my side,
enveloped in pain, half expecting that’s where they’d find my frozen corpse the
next morning.
“There you go, you stupid cocksucker,” I thought, “you went and killed
yourself.”
I hadn’t. The pain subsided, given time. But the ghost of it lingered there, a dire warning of what might come were I not to heed the warning.
What was it? Acid reflux. My doctor congratulated me on my decision to quit and gave me pills to ease the acid in my gut while my esophagus healed.
I would quit, too; but not before I’d gone to Egypt, a trip planned and paid for, a land where the boy child has a cigarette shoved in his mouth at the moment of birth; were I to quit before then, I was sure to fail. So I didn’t, not just then.
Shortly after my scare, I met Beverly.
Mere months afterwards, I quit.
I’m surprised she didn’t run for the hills.
