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The Iraqi and the Moon, Part 4

May 2, 2015

Earlier that day, I had texted Mr. Moon saying that I missed talking to him. He offered to meet for coffee some time. He wasn’t going to come to my apartment, I thought. Interesting.

After the fiasco walk in the park with the Iraqi, I wanted to see him even more.

I picked up my son and told him about the bizarre conversation with the Iraqi.

“Oh, hell no,” he said. “You got to shut that down, right now!”

“But how?” I asked.

I don’t know how to break up. When I was a teenager, I broke up with someone and they stalked me. I had to get the attorney general involved. It was intense and scary and took a long time to resolve. I still have this latent fear that if I tell someone I don’t want to see them again, they’ll behave like a nut job.

I was a dick with the Baton Rouge guy. I wasn’t honest at all. I need to learn how to do this, I decided.

“How?” my son asked incredulously? “Easy, you just tell him you don’t want to see him anymore.”

“I don’t want to be mean. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“He needs it. It will do him some good,” the 23-year old wise man said.

A recap with Liz confirmed the diagnosis. It had to be done.

I asked Mr. Moon if he wanted to get some ice cream with me. He said sure. I went home, changed my shoes and freshened up a bit and went to pick him up. I was starving. I don’t know why I suggested ice cream. Then I remembered that he said he hadn’t had a real American hamburger. I knew just the place.

I watched him walk toward the car. His stylish, mature choice of shorts and simple polo shirt. Those cool slip-on, a little bit dressy, a little bit casual shoes. I sighed to myself. Goddamn it. That’s what I want. 

He got in the car and I said, “Hey, how about a burger?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I could do that.”

As I drove to a nearby Lafayette institution, he asked with a big, mocking grin on his face, “So, how’s the boyfriend?”

“Funny you should ask,”  I told him my diagnosis based on the previous few hours.

He stood up for the Iraqi a little, confirming that it was true that middle eastern men tend to be more intense and forward with their affections.

“But the point is,” he said, “If you don’t, you know, feel in the same way, then it’s not good.”

“I don’t,” I said. “I have to break it off.”

I looked at him from across the table. His face was smoother than I had ever seen it. He must have just shaved. His hair was getting long again despite a recent cut. His hair grows up, like a salt and pepper fro.

We ate our burgers and mourned the death of the fish I had taken to buy for the Persian new year. He was genuinely upset.

“I don’t know what happened?” he said. “I said goodnight to them last night and they were fine. I got up this morning and said, ‘Good morning my little friends’ but I didn’t look over. When I went to feed them this afternoon, they were dead.”

I could imagine him saying goodnight and good morning in that cute little voice he brings out occasionally. He could be surprisingly funny and sweet for such an Eeyore.

As I told him more about what the Iraqi had said, I put my head in my hand, my elbow on the table and said with resignation, “Dating is hard. It’s a good thing I like being alone. I mean, it’s a good thing I know how to be alone.”

“Oooooh, I get it,” he said with a smirk. “Is this guy even real?”

“What?”

“I see now. You made him up because you wanted to get rid of me.”

I didn’t respond. I just looked at him and smiled. He knew better. I couldn’t express to him how far that was from the truth.

“No,” I said after a minute. I put my head down, “in fact, I think I made a big mistake.”

“How about that big earthquake in Nepal?” I changed the subject.

“Terrible,” he said, “All those people and the monuments lost. It’s very sad.”

I drove him back home and dropped him off.

“I need to get some things from you,” he reminded me.

“And you still have my book,” I said, “And I have something for you.” I had a print made of one of my photographs that he liked.

“See you around,” I said.

I pulled away and screamed out to no one, “THAT’S what I want! He’s what I want!”

 

 

Is this my pattern? Is it the tension and intensity of the unrequited love that attracts me? The romance of the temporary liaison?

Will I always be repelled the ones that want me and say so openly and unapologetically?

Or maybe Mr. Moon is just a smart, interesting, cute, stylish man and the Iraqi is a materialistic, thoughtful, kind, sweet, uninformed, non-thinker who goes to the gym too much.

 

 

I met Liz for drinks and watched her get tipsy, giving me permission to do the same. We were silly at the empty bar. I guess I wasn’t a bitchy drunk this time.

I went home, made popcorn and watched an episode of Silicon Valley before laying down to go to sleep.

As I quieted my mind I thought about Mr. Moon, seeing his smooth-skinned face and his smile as he ate his burger and mourned his fish.

Tomorrow I have end it with the Iraqi, I thought.

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From → Rantings

One Comment
  1. I love reading your stuff! I can relate to you so much, though my son is only 7, and his advice is I shall never have another boyfriend ever unless his dad dies lol.

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