So, I kinda managed to maim my left arm. How did you manage to do that, you ask? Short answer- I fell off a running treadmill, my hand got wedged under the belt and I couldn’t use my left hand for 2 weeks. There’s no long answer. As a consequence, I have had a startlingly, excitingly and positively tingly new excuse to put off writing a new post, despite the amazing post titles that line my dashboard with the content part empty, looking solemn under the brilliant headings. I’ve decided to give free reign to my inner environmentalist and recycle some old content. Besides, posting love stoires always seems to garner more attention than my witty commentary on American Television shows. So without further ado, here’s a tale I wrote some years ago, not based on fact or anything that really ever happened, but, you know it does have snippets of inspiration from real life, as most tales do:
I want to ask you this, out of curiosity more than anything else. From what I’ve heard, what happened and what should have happened are two very different things.
We were supposed to bump into each other on a rainy day, you would pick up the books you had knocked out of my hand and we’d smile at each other, shy from under a shared umbrella. I met you at a bar, a shady one at that.
Apologies were to have been exchanged, and then you would proffer an offering of peace, coffee perhaps. I bought you the drink at the bar, upon encouragement from a close personal friend.
You would pay for it like a gentleman, waiving my enthusiastic protests, and in a manner that is both cute and awkward you would ask for my number. I didn’t give you my number. You didn’t ask for it, you sipped the drink I’d bought you and flashed me a grin from across the room.
You would call three days later after a couple of casual texts, and ask me to coffee again. I would say yes, and spend three hours worrying about what to wear-something sexy, but also cute. I watched you make your way to me, striding casually, gaze fixed on me, hungry. You leaned into my ear, to make a whispered proposition, one I couldn’t refuse.
You would ask me about myself – my family, what I do and my interests. You would feign interest occasionally and more often than not you would like everything everything I had to say. I blushed at the forwardness of your proposition, squirmed on the bar stool and looked away.
You would smile and answer my queries about you in return, as you pour me a glass of wine. I made to get off the bar stool, when my close personal friend interrupted me. She convinced me that your proposition wasn’t in my best interests and that, come morning I wouldn’t be happy with it. I accepted her flawless logic, and with that I bade you a remorseful farewell, not without slipping you my number.
I would smile when I see your name on my phone, I would re-read your messages and feel warm and fuzzy inside. You messaged me alright, and I did re-read those messages, not once, but many times.
So, time would fly, when not spent in each other’s company. A couple of months later, something brought us together again. It wasn’t fate, I checked. You just came to that bar often, and everytime you did you would text me to come meet you.
We would meet each other’s families, exchange pleasantries and gifts even.You whispered the same proposition, this time knowing me only little more than you did last time. There was no one to talk sense into me this time, with a kiss the deal was sealed.
Schedules would me drawn up, Christmas with myfolks, Thanksgiving with yours. We did draw up a schedule- no strings attached was the only rule, that’s what I assumed. I didn’t ask, it occurred to me, sure, but I didn’t ask.
You would ask me to move in with you, give me a key to your apartment maybe. Or maybe we would get a house that is “ours” in the suburbs. It’s called a ‘Booty call’ apparently, what we were doing. I was amused, it was fun and fun was always a good thing.
We would check in with each other everyday, maybe twice even. I’d call you, tell you to get take out for dinner, or just maybe let you know I’d be home late from work. I knew what you did for a living-an artist, that was the extent of my knowledge, you knew even less about me. I would ask, as a friend of course, you replied courteously, but never with the enthusiasm I expected. It’s been 6 months since we last spoke. I keep count, but I won’t pick up the phone.
You would start acting funny, I would wonder if you were cheating on me, until I find a ring in a shoe-box hidden in your closet. You would propose, I would accept. There would be champagne, the company of family, friends and acquaintances. None of my friends knew you existed, mostly I am glad for that. You were my dirty little secret, and I yours. The sneaking around was fun. I haven’t deleted your number, but someday soon the courage will come. When 6 months grow to a year.
There would be a wedding to plan-flowers,cake, bridesmaids’ dresses. I used to be married a long time ago, that went to hell. He cheated on me, that’s why I was at that bar 6 months ago. In 6 months, I’ve turned down 5 men, who could have been Mr.Rachel. I don’t owe you anything, I don’t have to be faithful to you. It was in the contract. Then why?
I would see you standing at the end of that aisle, smiling like I’m all you ever wanted. I would walk slowly, in pace with my father, eager to get to you, seeing our whole life ahead of us. “Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”. I do, love you.