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Hello Love. Please Hold.

May 15, 2013

Subtitle: Z part III

To be offered love is not a small thing. To have someone turn to you and say, “I’ll love you as long as I’m with you,” is not insignificant. It doesn’t happen every day. Some people wait years to have such an offer made to them. For many, it happens once in their lives.


He’s gone now. He left to go to India for three months. I knew this was coming when I met him. Only two weeks into dating me he had said, “I’m going to come straight to your house as soon as I get back.” I wasn’t so sure.

The night before he left, he and his friends joined Liz and me at the Moon. I thought it might be awkward. We were on my turf and the Moon is very different from the college hangouts they’re used to. But it wasn’t weird. It was fun. Pickle and I tried to teach them to dance. His friend E is a better dancer but couldn’t quite let go of Indian-style moves in favor of Cajun ones. Z is not a very good dancer. He could hardly move his feet to the beat, a fact that completely discounts our theory about one’s abilities in bed being directly related to one’s abilities on the dance floor.

I gave up trying to teach him to two-step and we danced a simple one-step, our eyes locked, our heads touching. He told me he had more fun that night at the Moon then any of the nights at the college hangouts. After many attempts at dancing, we sat on the back porch talking and laughing.


I still don’t know what I’m doing! I think about him and I tell myself to give him up. There’s no future with him. He’s young and immature. Sometimes he says things and I look at him and think, “Really, Marie? Shouldn’t you be with someone more like you? Age appropriate. Mature.” Then he says or texts something to me that takes my breath away and I melt.

He says what’s on his mind. He lacks the fear of vulnerability that comes with age and heartbreak. He is walking around with a shocking lack of baggage. It’s both refreshing and disarming. Sometimes he looked at me and knew that I had something I wanted to say, a question I wanted to ask and he drew it out of me. When I fumbled with my words he said, “Just say everything. Don’t worry about what I’m going to think. Just tell me everything.”

At those moments my mind would flash back to memories of sitting on the porch outside of the house I shared with a husband and two kids……with so much despair, so much sadness in my heart, wishing that my husband would come out and see about me and ask, “What’s wrong?” And say, “Just tell me everything.”


People say you date who you are. Am I doing that? I think I’m still 24 years old inside. I think I never grew up. While I might have the intellect, abilities, experience and maybe some wisdom of the 43 year old I really am, I’m still a young woman who wants to have fun, enjoy life and be swept off her feet. Some people think we are working out our past issues with the people we date. Is the universe sending me this man to show me what I need? To show me that it’s possible to connect with someone again, but this time with someone happy? That I need someone who will see it in my eyes when I have something to say and invite me to just tell him everything?


Earlier that last night, he texted me that he wanted to say something once we all had our drinks. We were standing in a circle in front of the bar, three of us with shots and Z with his coke, we held up our cups and he said, “To our one month anniversary.”

“To Z,” I responded. We toasted. Our one month anniversary, huh? OK.

Just as my mind was entertaining the notion that there was a child standing in front of me, remembering the date that we met……just four weeks earlier and the silliness of commemorating a mere month-long acquaintance…….that same mind tapped into the heartbreak of eating a hot dog on my 15-year wedding anniversary because my husband couldn’t muster the sentimentality or intention of purpose to commemorate 15 years of commitment.

That’s the dance my brain has been having with my heart ever since I met Z. The rational part over-analyzes every experience with him. My brain doubts the wisdom of this affair and says, “Let him go. You have no future with him. He’s not on your level. He’s a child.”

Then my heart takes the lead. My heart remembers the pain and rejection that it felt as I tried to survive a failing marriage. My heart looks into his beautiful brown eyes and sees him looking back at me with love. My heart understands that he makes time for me. My heart skips at every morning message, every smile, every laugh. The way his eyes light up when he sees me. It says to my brain, “Are you kidding me? We’re being offered love. Acceptance. Fun. Laughter and companionship. Why would you reject someone who wants nothing more than to love you?” It’s a valid question.

Then there’s the physical connection. I’ve never experienced anything like it. I had something similar with my ex-husband but it took us years to get to that level of connectivity, of free expression and lack of inhibition that Z and I had the first time we touched. Once, after we made love I sat up next to him, out of breath and taken aback by the intensity of the experience. I looked him right in the eyes and said, “You know it’s never going to be like this with anyone else, right?” He just smiled, took me in his arms and kissed me.

He’s said that he wished I had been born 20 years later. It wouldn’t have been this way between us if I were 24, I’ve explained to him. I couldn’t have been the way I am now when I was 24. And he won’t be the same 20 years from now. For four weeks our timelines crossed. The set of circumstances that had to happen to bring us together makes it hard not to believe in fate.


One Saturday morning after spending the night with me, we sat in bed half the day. I remember feeling a bit foolish and irresponsible for just lying around in bed, laughing and talking and doing other things. But as soon as I thought that, I remembered how much I had always wanted my ex-husband to be able to do that with me, just once in a while. I could never get him to relax enough to just blow everything off and chill out in bed with me on a Saturday or Sunday morning. To just drink coffee and enjoy each other’s company and laugh and be silly. He was incapable of being that light-hearted. There was a brick wall between him and joy that I could never knock down, though I tried for 20 years. I was always left feeling sad when all I wanted was to just be with him.

Z is happy. He’s fun and makes me laugh. He likes me. He likes being with me. He made room for me in his life. He became, for four short weeks, a part of my daily life. He made me smile. He cooked for me. That same Saturday he made an Indian dish in my tiny little kitchen and we invited Liz over. I sat with Z and Liz in my crappy apartment with the windows open eating Indian food and laughing. It was wonderful.


He talks in his sleep. One morning, after working a night shift he came over and climbed into bed with me. After I got up to get ready for work he fell asleep. When I tried to tell him he could stay and sleep there, he unconsciously uttered some nonsense, then woke up. He was embarrassed that I had heard him talking in his sleep. I laughed at him. When I was ready to go to work I bent down to say goodbye, and his eyes were closed again. “Are you asleep?” I asked, teasing him. “Are you talking in your sleep?” I whispered close to his face. “What do you want me to know? What do you need to tell me?” Without opening his eyes he said clearly, “I love you.”

“Oh God,” I sighed, tears welling in my eyes. I put my head on his shoulder. How can he love me? He doesn’t even know me. It doesn’t seem real. Yet, the intoxication of being loved is inescapable. It’s irresistible. It’s been such a long time since someone has offered me that kind of love, so young, so new, so untarnished. My mature, rational brain says, “Shut it down. This is not real. This is youth and a strong physical connection fooling both of you into thinking you are more to each other than you rationally should be.”

Bu my heart thinks, “I love you, too. And thank you so much for offering me your love. I needed it.”


Three months is long time. I have seen my life change in drastic ways in less time than that. He is so young. He doesn’t know what I know. And I’ve been on this ride before. I don’t want to be disappointed again. I don’t want to write a blog about how this ended badly.

I don’t know what will happen when he comes back. Maybe I will have moved on. Maybe I will have written about No. 7 and 8 and 9. Maybe he will have forgotten about me. Maybe someone will have convinced him how foolish it is to try to date a divorced older woman whom he can’t marry or have children with. Maybe I will be at the airport running to meet him the moment he gets off the plane. Maybe we’ll pick up where we left off and treasure each moment until it ends. However No. 6 ends, he gave me more than I’ve had in a very long time.

He turned the hourglass over.


From → Rantings

One Comment
  1. Rose permalink

    Oh Kitten! I do this love story! I am in a relationship with a man much older than me, but in the end it doesn’t really matter all that much because we love each other so. I do hope you and Z can give it another go when he gets back into town. Wishing you all the best!

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