"Okay," he said.

He was tall, and lanky, and where he walked, I wanted to follow.

I don't want to forget him now, but the thought of hanging on hurts too much. It's painful, but the only thing that's able to relieve me is knowing that I made a decision.

"I did it. I did it. I did it," I chanted.

It's going to feel so quiet without him. Was it worth it? Absolutely. The sadness I feel knowing he sat silently through it all.

"Okay," he said.

That was all. And it's okay.

The disappointment and tears, yes, worth every minute I got to spend with him. Every minute he reached across the table to hold my hand. Every time he leaned in to kiss my forehead. Every time he held me close. Every time he made me feel that everything was going to be okay--even if he knew better.

He taught me how to let go a little more. To allow someone in.

I got hurt again. And it'll happen again and again and again. I have to schedule for this and recognize that indeed, it's making me the person I want to be. The person I always knew I could be. The person who deserves and gives and receives. A person who will someday be a hero.

I'll save Matt a dance. I'll write his story so that I won't allow myself to forget.

I'm happy I made this decision--and now I am freer. Freer to give my heart to the next man who will shape it more. Freer to recognize that there's so much more than me, and I.

He was beautiful. His jawline was fragile. His crooked teeth were charming with just a few out of line making it unbelievably sexy. It exposed his vulnerability--to know that something so prominent was aesthetically flawed. He smiled at me anyway. It made him solidly handsome.

He was tall, and lanky, and where he walked, I wanted to follow.

Decisions

And so it goes--I vowed forever to never be the type of woman who accepts these types of situations. Who accepts a man talking down to her, no matter the circumstance, yet here I sit thinking about the mixed messages and what ultimately will pour out of my mouth in just a few short hours.

The fact that I haven't cried scares me. Sure, I'm considered pretty strong, but if my love for him is that strong, I should be devastated. The chances of it hitting me after a few days are relatively high though.

How am I to ever look him in the face and feel the same way about him before he uttered those depracating words, those words of hatred and hurt.

I'm the type of woman who walks away, when met with adversity within a relationship. The more I think about it though, the more confused I become. It's as if a diagnosis has not yet been made, but you're so pondering the possibilities it makes you sick regardless.

Counting down the minutes to when more hurtful words are said make me sick, too. I think about how my life could be without you. With you. I think about what it will be like to go on dating--to not have to spend 2 years in a relationship where I am conscious of me. I've argued with myself that it's just not worth it--being so young and in an uncomfortable place--I'll be married and have kids one day, and on that day, I'll have to learn how to compromise and deal with such situations. But now, youth has afforded me the opportunity to just walk away.

I was also betrayed. Betrayed the first time I ever really trusted you. Having that taken away from me just so that you could prove your own point, your own "score."

Fate

Fate

Because in the end, fate wins anyway…

Upon first meeting, you never really pondered it much of a possibility. He looked older than you thought. He was older. Many men have lured you in with their harder looks. The men whose crow’s feet told a dance on the corner of their eyes—men whose hands were sprinkled with age spots. In truth you just wanted him to lay there…silently while you connected the dots. Ultimately, those were the most beautiful things about him. Rustic features.

He showed you things although he could be perceived as incredibly boring. Things you never knew about yourself and about living. Life as uninteresting. Dull, even. But that was fascinating. But what drew you to him most was his spurts of naïve youthfulness.

He turns to me, taps his of glass of aperitiv softly with mine, delivers the entire contents into his mouth.
I take a dainty sip.
“That was inappropriate, no?” he turns to say with a smile.
This humanized him.

He likes music on NPR. Music on NPR—do they even play music on NPR? What could you possibly know about National Public Radio, really?

“So, he likes music on NPR,” you divulge to a friend.
“Really, NPR? I think he was just trying to find an ‘in’ on pulling NPR into conversation.”

As you sat there that night at the New York City Opera, you recognized that if both your ages were added together, you’d still be the youngest people in the audience. This invigorated you. You were always drawn to ‘rocking chair’ conversation. The type that continued for hours, yet was so un-far reaching. Where thoughts were colorful dribbles that led nowhere. The type where, after a few hours, you were merely registering tone, but no meaning, where only the purse of his lips told his emotion.

You liked that he enjoyed you. You weren’t sure quite how much, he never let you in on the intensity when you weren’t together. Still, you like the way he says things, like certain words you hope he’ll pull into a conversation with you because it sounds slightly erotic.

You never really fought for him. It would be too romantic. Like your first kiss, the one that lasted minutes, made your stomach do flips. If you ever did decide to fight for him, it might go as such.

Hey Connor,
How are you? Long time no see. You must be busy. I’m pretty busy, too. And you’re the one that said that you became a lawyer because it would be easy—I know it’s an overplayed joke, but I still smile when I think of that.

I’m writing because that’s just what women do. We write, we rationalize, we overanalyze, we even secretly like this. We also like closure. I enjoyed you. Thank you for making me feel beautiful when we were together. I recognize the circumstances. I’ve done it before, too.

I know I’m younger than you and that you’re probably looking for something else, something more in a woman. You’re looking to learn from someone, not to just teach. It’s respectable and noble. I understand. I don’t want a response. You don’t owe me for it—I don’t expect anything.

I’ve sort of lost myself lately, a quarter-life crisis, if you will, and I’m thankful to many people, but thank you for teaching me—making me remember that there are things out there other than work and my urgent impulses and drives, professional or otherwise. That doing nothing and not discussing anything in particular is pivotal. Thank you for showing me things I’ve shied away from.

This is definitely revealing more than I should, but I'm impulsive, a bit silly and granted I'm still a kid. A lot of times I just write things down but never communicate it through. I did with a friend recently. If I could do this--swallow my pride and shyness and make someone feel as good as he did, then I deserve to keep doing it, at least to redeem me from my bigger missteps! And there are a lot of those, for sure.

You’re a great guy. I know from experience from my best guy friend that “thou shalt never refer to me as ‘nice’ or ‘great.’” Apparently those are not key terms to sell him for dates with my girl friends, so I’ll elaborate just a little bit more.

You always smelled really good. I remember it most clearly from our first kiss in my car, it was deliberate and beautiful. You’re smart, handsome and I couldn’t help but be melt at the way you uttered certain words, too. You deserve all good things in life.

And regarding this letter, I hope that you find it honest and charming, perhaps. I hope it makes you smile and that we can still be friends. I still feel like I have a lot to learn from you, if you’re willing to teach me.
All my best to you, always,
Anna

Traffic In My Horizon

The smartest thing I did was walk away. My search for the purity and uncomplicated qualities of love was futile. At least for the time being. Just like a movie or fairy tale, dynamic lovers are destined together only at the very end. As if that anticipation made them better for it. Made them appreciate where they now stood.

Many times I considered getting into my car and driving. Driving miles and miles to where he lay, and in my head I always considered the lovelies that would pour out of my mouth, past my lips. I considered silence. I considered notes and gestures and tears and laughter. The uncertainty always tore at me. Without faith or program, I would seek him. Without conviction I would face this wrath, the fury that uncertainty had bled into my veins. As if resolving to conquer would perhaps resolve me of this frenzy, as if getting it off my chest, years from when this was first founded could further ease the pain.

It’s so simple. So simple to fall in love with a fantastic woman you met on a plane to Paris, so much so that with just her first name and the name of a chain hotel she’d be staying at, you find her, by calling every hotel in the country. So simple to sit at a bar, third beer in hand, gaze over to that charming man sitting alongside you, laugh, and realize that all you want is him, genuinely and holistically. So simple to stride past that same woman at the company salad bar – for years – not say a word. Be captivated by her elegance, the pencil skirt that grazes her the skin between her tanned lean calves and her thighs, her slender wrists and the charming gusto with which she speaks to other men, men behind the counter. You can only wonder how she’d speak to you, with you, alongside you. You can only wonder how her legs would feel as they skimmed along yours, wrapped together into you, how they would look in the bright sunlight that shone in at 7AM, if her right leg would be hooked around your wrinkled sheets. So simple to wake up next to the man that you’ve been sleeping and waking up next to for the past 8 years and realize how lucky you are, how handsome his supple skin looks against the harsh August sun beaming in mid-afternoon, gently coaxing you in and out of slumber on beautiful summer Saturdays. How handsome he looks when he stands from bed, the sheets unraveling and winding down from his waist as he’s reaching down for the small wire rimmed glasses on the nightstand that will delicately be held in place by the refined bridge of his nose. So simple to resentfully desire your best friend’s fiancé. To know that you’d willingly realign the stars in order to change your fates. To realize that it needs to be said said, to recognize though that, sometimes, enough is enough. So simple to usher into a train directly across a lively and energetic toddler. To wave, smile, laugh, coo. To sense, too, an overwhelming calm, a crushing restlessness. To understand that it’s all so simple and it’s everywhere.

Jon

CAVEAT: This is a work of fiction. Thanks.

Now there was something so sexy and exotic about him, like those croc heels you only want to wear after dark. He was the first Latino man I’ve ever dated, and I guess like shoes, one must really try it on for size before deeming them outright nonsensical. Our first meeting wasn’t exactly spectacular, but something about that olive-toned, smooth face made me look twice. Sure, there I was, slightly inebriated and playfully flirting with my friend's 50-ish co-worker. It must’ve been how I shot him down and he had to pick himself back up after coyly joining in on a joke he wasn’t invited to, but heck, maybe it was the way I cocked my head back, twirled my hair and smiled that led him to offer up his business card and a copy of his magazine's August issue, his media calling card for press whores everywhere.

After some friendly email exchange a week later, we were well on our way to Absolute Rio, New York’s expensively Amazonian-clad version of the mysteriously spicy island it was named for, and accompanied by this fiery advertising execs’ imposing view of money, sluts and cars, I knew I was well on my way of running in the other direction. I had a considerable Amazonian task myself, looking him in the eye as the blur of numbers streaming from his lusciously full lips made me dizzy with disgust. Three beers, one major bout of alcohol spillage later, I was walked to my train stop, I wouldn’t see him for three weeks.

“So how have you been stranger? Didn’t hit the right chords?” is what I found in the ether that is my inbox early on a Wednesday afternoon. Considering our disregard with following up straight after the date, I’d say it was a near disaster, but I was intrigued. I had to respect his persistence and though not timely, his follow up. Several emails later – with sexier banter underway – with references to each other as a “ stud-ly Casanova” and a “sexy minx,” even “kinda cute,” we decided it appropriate to give date number two a try.“Kinda cute?” he asked.“Yep, and I ‘kinda’ had a good time last time…”

Perhaps bad karma was meant to trickle my way regardless, but the premise of arranging this second date laid on the hard fact that I was going to be ultimately teaching this Jon a lesson. Intrigued? Sure, but was it right for him to assume that after 3 weeks of no calls, no emails, that a girl should still be captivated? He was awestruck that no call had been made on my behalf that no swooning came to par and this ultimately crushed his spirit, he was definitely the type of man who wanted the upper hand.

Boudoir, a sleek new lounge situated on 8th and 16th was our next stop. I thankfully arrived with enough time to pull it together in the restroom. I was wearing my forest green flowing dress with my hand-carved wooden beaded necklace that accentuates the grand bosom earned since religiously taking birth control for about 3 years. I decide to arrange myself at the bar, await his presence and seal that deal with a killer smile, legs crossed elegantly underneath the soft glow of the bar’s amber mood lighting.Sometimes, though, these moments live only in one’s fantasy. So much for looking like the sexy vixen he came to worship… after tripping on another woman’s jacket I hear a familiar voice.“Hey, already causing chaos?”Ass in the air, I stumble forward, nearly tumbling over my own feet, coyly smile with an embarrassed flush sweeping across my face.

We sat, we drank, we talked. Mostly about electronics and work – a point of contention with me as that topic did little to inspire me to brave another outing with this jerk again. Alas, but here I was again, and almost as if God came down and decided to put me in my place, I started liking him. Really. Aside from his rude social mannerisms and his pompous attitude, he was really an alright “kinda” guy.

After a quick smoke break we decide to head East to the distilled version of the happiest, 80s-fantastic, yet AquaNet-free place on earth. We plop down at one of the back banquets at Joshua Tree. We are enclosed not only by the sights and sounds of legendary one-hit-wonders of the 80s and 90s, all on huge flat screens enveloping the entire joint, but by each other.“So, what are you doing?” I ask as he stares at me.“Oh, just waiting until you finally kiss me” he says. There started the make-out fest that would keep us both hungry for more than just criminal gazes and youthful amusement and finally met us at my train stop – each of us on one side of the metal gate, voraciously lip-locked.

The last time I was to ever see Jon I am convinced I proceeded to piss a man off more than I have in my entire life. Not only did he drive to New Jersey from his native New York, but I then proceeded to get him drunk, single-handedly hand his ass to him in a game of cards and carted him off to bed, without so much as fooling around.

After stocking up on movies and endless snack possibilities, we made frozen margaritas, laughed and played. Come 4AM, we’re crammed together on my loveseat opposite the television that was now fixated on pre-dawn infomercials. 7AM crawls in, the sun beginning to shine on the polished wooden floorboards.

“Hey, it’s 7AM, are you going to make me drive home now?”

“Yep,” I reply.

“Are you serious? It’s too early, let’s get into your bed, it’s more comfortable.”

I hastily agree to such terms – when a woman’s mind is made up about not sleeping with a man, her mind’s made up, though – it was early though and I did need some real rest.I crawl into bed after topping my tank with a long sleeve knit. Still in jeans I embrace my pillow, facing the wall and close my eyes. Jon climbs in, strokes the small of my back.

“Man, you’re wearing a lot of clothes!”

“Yeah, I’m cold,” I retort, “What are you wearing?”

“Just my boxers…”I turn to face the wall and fall asleep.

Few hours later, I awoke. Fresh faced and eager to face the world I proceed to twirl around in my sheets, impatiently attempting to awake Sleeping Beauty from his rejuvenating slumber. He leaves. Slightly angry. I can see it in his eyes. No follow up calls or emails ensue, this does not surprise me.One month later, the detective in me decides to stalk this former prey. He’s pictured in a Manhattan photo file – making out with another woman! I laugh. What else is there to do? I finally bid him adieu, smiling coyly. Jon last emailed me September 19, this photo is clearly dated September 8th. Vengeance is still served.

Cake -- Well it's for eating, no?

As for the saying "well you just want your cake and eat it, too" I ask... Well what good is cake if you don't eat it? And if you don't eat it right away, what good is stale cake? Can one just stare at cake and not be tempted to eat it... why would you bake it in the first place? Does one like to torture oneself? I know for damn sure that I like cake, I like cookies, too. I'll be damned if I go into the trouble of baking one, waiting for it to cool (oh the torture) icing it, then just not devouring it -- that is ludicrous. Does one wait for someone else to? I've never been the type to allow someone else to step into my territory, especially not my kitchen that holds the cooling rack that gracefully rests (best case scenario) an especially moist carrot cake.

I suppose this diatribe correlates nicely with relationships... Of course we all want that guy (or gal) and we want them with all the sides -- with regards to cake, that would be the icing, the sprinkles, even the funny silver colored metal sprinkle balls that adorn the top of fancy cupcakes. Why should we expect any less though? Just like cake, why swallow flavorless clumps of dough? God only knows it contains the same calories, but it's just not as satisfying as a freshly baked chocolate (or carrot) cupcake with fresh buttercream icing and rainbow sprinkles... even if one must swallow a Lactaid pill before fully committing.

Luck -- Made, Inherited or a Depleting Resource?

I've always been quite the optimist. Sure, terrible things roll my way. Sparingly though, enough to give me hope, and actually enough to make me wonder when something awful is looming. A girl's gotta wonder, you know. How long can one make it before major disaster? How long before you fall down the stairs in a crowded restaurant? How long before you spill red wine on your snow-white cashmere sweater? How long before the ball is dropped on a major project? Before you fall in love with an incredibly handsome, impossibly tall, successful man, (who wears cute glasses to boot) and he dumps your ass -- just like that.
Don't you wonder? Does luck ever run out? Are some people naturally luckier than others. Does luck deplete like a natural resource? Can one just be lucky in some segments or facets of life -- and if so, can we will it to shift, just as money could in a bank account?