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The Man on the Moon

February 11, 2015

He walked with me that Saturday afternoon. It was a beautiful day and the park was filled with runners and families.

He said our conversation Wednesday had left him upset. He wanted to try to be friends.

He asked me why I was pulling away from him. It seemed like an odd question. We had only just met, really. He had just told me he was still married a few days ago. I had just spent the weekend in Baton Rouge. How was I pulling away?

“You won’t even look at me,” he observed.

I didn’t know what to say. After more prodding I admitted, “It’s dangerous.”

He managed to break down what small, feeble wall I had attempted to put between us, a self-imposed barrier of morality.

He wanted to come over that night and bring wine so we could talk and maybe watch a movie. I had just spent the prior evening with BR Guy doing that very thing. I wanted to go out. Plus, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be alone with him again. The last time, we had almost kissed. He was surprisingly stubborn about it but I held my ground saying, “I’m going to Pamplona and then to the Feed & Seed to hear a band. I would like it if you came with me but it’s up to you.”

Despite having walked over a mile to get there, I led him on a third lap, not wanting to end our time in the beautiful weather. We joked easily. He teased me and called me mean. He had asked me before what kind of guy I was looking for, threatening to set me up. I sent him my “Mr. Moon” story. Walking with me he asked, “Have you found Mr. Moon?”

Yeah, it’s you, I wanted to say.

“I thought I did.” I said.

“What happened?” he asked.

He’s not available, I thought.

Avoiding his eyes, I said, “It didn’t work out.”

He walked me back to my apartment and I asked him if he wanted coffee. We sat on my sofa with our mugs and talked more and the afternoon easily passed by. He continued to ask if we could stay in that night. I persisted. Then he gave me some long explanation that I can’t quite remember. Writing about now, it seems manipulative. Maybe he was playing me.

He said he needed to spend some time with me to feel more at ease with what was between us, or not between us. That our conversation Wednesday had upset him and he hadn’t been able to focus. That being with me and talking to me might make it easier.

It doesn’t hold up in retrospect. Maybe I’m just easily swayed by a cute face and an accent as Z can probably attest to. Maybe I’m not as strong as I think I am.

He asked me to do him this favor. I agreed.

I told him about the Tannat wine at Marcelo’s and instructed him to ask for the guy who looks like Santa Claus. He left with the promise of returning that evening, giving me a chance to eat and shower and maybe relax a little.

I wondered at the whole situation. He said he was a mess. He said he didn’t know what he was doing. He obviously wanted to spend time with me, liked being with me. But he also made it clear that he was unavailable. He wasn’t a separated man who was never going back. Despite his saying that he didn’t love her, didn’t miss her and didn’t believe that she loved him, reconciliation seemed to be a possibility. Enough of a possibility to remain loyal to his marriage.

I understood that part. I did the same thing. I didn’t want to be with anyone else until my divorce was actually final. Until then, I considered myself married. We shared that morality.

But we were also meeting at my apartment alone with wine.

I was treading an ethical grey area.

I took a shower and took longer than I’d care to admit choosing a suitably cute but casual outfit. I put my converse on. I sat at my computer and worked on edits to my Jerusalem story, my door open to the cool evening air and I waited for him to walk up the steps.


From → Rantings

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