All the irrational things that run through your mind, when your morning-noon-and-night hasn’t called in 24 hours:
1) He’s sleeping or passed out drunk somewhere. Hopefully at a good friend’s, one that won’t introduce him to sloppy Sally who is convinced that impaired men are still good men.
2) He’s upset. What did I do? Backtrack to the last conversation. Did I offend him?
3) He’s dead in a ditch somewhere. Omg, omg. Google search. Social network check-in. News report: “Man hit by train in (place he lives in.)” Step away from the television.
4) He’s a lying manipulating ass cheater and he better not ever call again!
5) He’s sleeping. He must’ve had a really rough night and forgot to call. Yeah, that’s it he’s sleeping.
This is the point where the benefit of the doubt will enter stage left. It’ll steep itself into the fragile teacup you call a heart. Witness the memories swirl and brew, reminding you of the perfection he is/was.
Micah came out of nowhere. That far away place my friends spoke of when I was single and ranting about how I’d never find anyone. Out of that cliché phrase, when I was immersed in everything, but love, he stepped right into my life.
Our first conversation was dry. Still trying to figure out what we were doing, we talked about general things. What did he do? What did I enjoy? I was trying to become accustomed to his drawl and he was enamored with the tempo of my Yankee cadence. It didn’t help that I was drinking, during the time of our first encounter, my confidence pushed buttons I wouldn’t have dared to press coherent.
He text the next morning:
“I wanted to see if your feelings were still the same when you’re sober, because I like you.”
I beamed from the seat I’d plummeted in, when his name appeared on my phone. I envisioned his sunset eyes, plump nose, and savant smile. We exchanged simple words, the initiation of spine tingling wasn’t new but it would travel further than ever before.
“You’re like a breath of fresh air.”
“You sir, are incredibly handsome.”
“I’d love to get to know you.”
“I thought we were already doing that.
We exchanged texts and late night phone calls, like schoolchildren, pretending our consciences were mimes. He chased me, like no other man before him, and worshiped my flaws like goddesses.
Temple, I mean woman, I mean pedestal; prepare to stumble on words that used to flow effortlessly and tell him stupid things you swore you’d never repeat.
I used to be a tomboy; I think I still am, I prefer jeans to dresses.
I’ve only had an orgasm, with myself.
I dance to ignorant music, when no one is looking.
My older cousin touched me once, I never told anyone, because I didn’t think it mattered.
He will tell you that it matters, that you matter. All the things you thought were insignificant, he wants to hear. He doesn’t just want to hear about your day, he wants to know your life. He wants to meet.
We stood, facing one another, in the middle of a city that wasn’t his nor mine. He said, “You know this is our place now, you won’t be able to come back here without me.” He was right. Just recently, I drove down the I-95 and shuddered at its exit sign.
I think we went on seven dates that day; some were his plans and others impromptu.
- A bowling alley where I lost two games, and most certainly my heart.
- An innocent park walk, with sentiment everywhere: Under our tongues and in plain view, our maybe future danced in front of us: two children playing with their parents, two lovers who’d known the map of each other’s faces for almost an eternity, and trees that’d been rooted and loyal to an unmoving foundation. Jesus. Those eyes. How could God place an entire soul into small entities? Hey you.
- A bookstore. Have you read this? Nah, but I’m reading you.
- A glance at my reflection, just to make sure everything was still in tact. He smiled, “Why are you looking at yourself? If you want to know if everything looks good, just ask. You look good baby.”
Yihhh. Yahhh. Humuna humuna. Is that how you spell that shit?
Hello God? I don’t know where you made him, but we need clones. Get back to that workshop. Build replicas that are limber, long, and so utterly fly. Get to crafting woman.
I think we ate a few local delicacies, smiled at each other at a bar counter incessantly, and almost kissed a few times.
You do know almost-kisses always turn into something immaculately dangerous, later on, right? Something that you’ve known for a while, but were afraid to utter, just in case it tried to swallow you whole. Devour you. Gulp you deep, until you are the parts of him, you wanted nothing to do with.
We finished our day, sitting in the car. He fumbled with the air conditioner and I smiled stupidly, trying not to blunder the next words. I looked forward on the looking back and I didn’t want to wonder, where it went wrong, and pinpoint the exchange on our “first date.”
I wonder if anyone else has known that they were staring directly at their soul mate, before it became fruition. It’s slow and subtle; starting out as wit, charm, and jest and evolving into something suffocating. I could not breathe, I wondered if he could hear the air leave my lungs as he eyed my lips. I wanted to ask, if he wanted to kiss me.
We locked orifices and spoke in between speaking. Even in our silence, filled with the sucking of lips and the déjà vu of adoration, there was banter.
His kisses said, “I’ve been broken before and I’m not asking you to fix me, because I mend on my own. Some times things still work, when they’re missing pieces, but they never labor exactly the same. I don’t need the parts of me that are absent, but I want you to make me whole anyway.”
My sighs in between replied, “There is God in you and even though I’m not religious, I’m spiritual. I detect holy ghosts in the accent of your heart and I’ve been yearning to pray at your alter. Darkened knees and undertakings, we can find heaven together.”
We slipped into each other, mentally, until there was nothing left, but goodnight. It was clear what we both sought and there was nothing left to find.
So where was he?
The man that left me in an unrecognizable euphoria.
The brother that left me humming down West 125th, soaked in the renaissance memory that used to be Harlem.
The myth my best friends said was never going to come.
His name appeared on my phone.
When you’ve been worrying about the most significant person in your life, for almost 24 hours, their tone of nonchalance, lacking emergency, is the most shattering thing you could ever hear.
You never wanted them to be hurt, but you’ve always wanted their pain to be the only thing that could stop them from reaching out to you.
Hey. Where have you been?
You’ll want to sound cool and collected, because he is. However, you will be a fire underneath your garments and that exploding thing you’re feeling in your chest, is no longer a heart.
What’s next when your soul mate is no longer available?
What happens when you never had the chance to tell him that you loved him?
What happens when the at-first-sight fades to darkness?
Where is the God in him now?
He will sigh and remove all semblance of adoration, from his voice, “There’s this young lady I was seeing before you. I came home and she was waiting for me on my steps. She’s…pregnant.”
Not in the way that you did the first night his lips touched yours. Lose air like you’re grasping for it. Lose air like all the other times you’ve been proven right.
Prince charming does not exist.
Prince charming does not exist.
Prince charming does not exist.
But what if he does?
While your mind is driven by emotion: “She was before me so it doesn’t matter. I’ll stick with him through it. I’ll be by his side.”
His mind will be driven by logic: “You deserve better. You shouldn’t have to be a part of something like this.”
Somewhere in the near future, you’ll have a weak moment. You’ll ask him to take you, when he’s in town and he will refuse you. Not because he doesn’t want you, but because he realizes that you will be even more dilapidated afterwards, than you’ve ever been before. Listen to reality speak:
“This is what you asked for stupid girl and you are getting it. This is love. Well, some form of it.”
Prince Charming does not wear riding boots and hand out happily-ever-after. Prince Charming knows that you should eat your vegetables. He knows what’s good for you and is sure to have you choose the road Robert Frost speaks of. Prince Charming rocks Levis 511s and New Balances, he speaks with a southern drawl, and he is sometimes just the prototype.
Often we’re sent someone to show us what it looks like. No you cannot keep them, but you can preserve the memory of their almost-perfection. Use it to help you raise your standards and sculpt your ideal. Allow them to be the beginning of your love story. It all began when he taught me…
This is how someone can enter your life and completely revolutionize your ideology on love and where to look for it. This is how you can go from not believing in fairytales to believing that it’s possible to scribe them into that direction. This is the way of letting him go, laying him to rest on clean white sheets, something you regret never doing. This is how someone up there is messing with you, or giving you damn good stories to write. This is how you will spend the next two months of your life, torn between his actualization and what was. Or perhaps…just perhaps…