A Question Answered

She watched him walk in. Late. Despite the fact that he picked the place. He set the time. Did he do it on purpose, the disorganization, the lateness? Did he like to keep her waiting? She could never tell.

Cute, curly mop of hair. Like a boy. Charming, lopsided smile. Like a boy. Sauntering over in his favorite hoodie, unhurried and unbothered. Like a boy.

Leaning in to hug her and trying for a kiss; she turned her head making the painful greeting even more awkward.

First things first. Delivering the blue cashmere sweater to him that had been sitting on her bedroom floor in a plastic bag for a month. His delayed gratification Christmas present. If she had been a better – what – girlfriend? – maybe she would have picked out the right size. But she was not better, and she was never his girlfriend.

Her innate sense of fairness dictated the return of the small for medium, even after she knew it was over and the holidays passed. After optimistic and thoughtful gifts were exchanged. After hard discussions about how untenable their – what – relationship? – was.

No, she was not his girlfriend. No, this was not a relationship. A situationship. A friend of hers had casually tossed out the term. Landing like a blow to her sternum. The vagueness of the term offering her clarity for once. An answer to the question that plagued her about what they were to each other, where this thing was headed: nothing, really; nowhere.

She sat across from him at the tavern table while he dutifully – chipper, even – tried on the beautiful crewneck. Cornflower blue perfection. The exact Pantone match of his eyes. Satisfaction in at least doing that right.

He’s grinning, knows he looks good. Leaves the sweater on, tag and all. Looking, finally, like a man.

A relief for her that that’s done, no loose ends.

She knew he had stalled meeting up with her, dragging out setting their “not date.” He had to at least sense it couldn’t go on like this, that she would end it. But did he?

She knew better than anyone how easy it was to create a fantasy world and live in it.

She was watching his mouth move. Words coming out. Sounding like he was underwater.

“Whatever space you need…I respect your boundaries…”

I need you to stop. That is the boundary. I need you to stop with the flirty texts. Suggestive emails. Sexy songs. Heartbreaking songs. I need this to be over. Every ping is a scab ripped open.

I need you to stop. I need this to end. I need closure.

She had done so well for the first few weeks of January after the most recent time she told him goodbye. And then, an email from him. Valuing her friendship, not wanting to lose her.

She knew it would come. A foot in the door. And she let him back in.

Weeks of sweetness. Torture. Sadness.

She knew she would kiss him goodbye, fully, on the lips. And wondered how it would be, their last kiss. Would he put his hands around her waist? Would she run her hands up his 8-pack abs, under the cashmere sweater? Or would she wrap them around his neck and up into his hair, like she knew drove him crazy? Would he press her against her car? Would she be left breathless?

He was talking. Still. Nervousness.

His strong, rough hand. Perpetually dirty fingernails from his work and never-ending home improvement projects. Gripping her soft hand with painted fingernails, the feminine compliment to his masculine. Holding it tight.

Their eyes locked, welling up.

“I love you. Deeply. I need you. I just…need you.”

His mouth moving. Words coming out; easy to say now that it was ending, impossible to say when it would have meant everything to her. Beautiful words from beautiful lips.  

It wouldn’t be like their first kiss. Expected, yes, but still a surprise. Surprised that he found her attractive. That anyone found her attractive. In her early 50’s. Her first first date in almost 30 years. Him, younger, but in the same position. She wondered if he would kiss her then, a stroll after dinner. Late on a Tuesday night. Sitting on a park bench.

She can still conjure the electricity hitting her lips like a shock, when he finally leaned over, a bolt of lightning going through her. Her hands caressing his face, his mouth on her neck. His hands moving down her back, over and around her, imprinting every curve. Her mouth on his ear, he inhales, practically gasps for air. The kissing. They couldn’t stop. A heart’s oasis for their parched souls.

Two lonely souls, trauma bonded by grief and failure. Different paths, roads no one ever thought they would travel converging, meeting and traveling together.

It was fun to pretend that nothing mattered. Why should it? Society places zero expectations on the middle-aged divorced. Obligations fulfilled. Children produced. Bonds broken. Cast off to do as they please. To travel the road of their remaining years alone or together with whomever they please. Older, now. Maybe wiser. They no longer matter to the world.

Kindred spirits, they see each other, recognize each other from lifetimes ago. Know each other and love each other. They are together in another realm without worldly constraints. But not an earthly one where “real” life matters.

Compatibility matters. Religion matters. Time matters. Money matters. Family matters. Even a broken one. Especially a broken one. Fragile ecosystems established, two where there was once a whole. They would not integrate their faith or their schedules or their money. Or their families, certainly, and risk disrupting the delicate balance.

So now, heartache.

He asks her to tell him when she starts seeing someone else. An absurd request.

And in the next breath she asks him to promise her he won’t ever get married again. He closes his eyes and sighs. A non-answer to an even more ridiculous request.

He had never been treated so well in any relationship. The gifts. The meals. The love. He couldn’t match it, he said. He couldn’t come close. She deserved better than scraps at the end of a long day. He has no time. He has no money. He has no energy to match her abundance. She knew. But still. He had given to her, too. Kindness. Thoughtfulness. Gentleness and understanding. Seeing and listening. Attention unmatched by any relationship that she had ever had.

He had stopped talking. Their damp eyes locked. It was time to say goodbye. Once again. For good this time. For real.

His hand resting on the small of her back as they walked to the exit. He kept it there as they walked to the parking lot; his car next to hers.

There. Then.

Hands on her waist. Hands on his face.

Soft. Tender. Slow. Restraint.

Her face pressed against his chest. His strong arms wrapped around her. Cheek resting on the top of her head.

This is how it ends.