A Man Smiles

My personal life continues to be a shambles.  I thought I had it all figured out.  I had my partner-in-crime--  for when the crime is old age -- all sussed out.  We were going to grow old together.  This fact is now not as certain as it once was.  Love isn't everything. It's no cure-all. The act of tip-tap-typing these words causes a tree trunk to grow stiff and hard through my insides from the top of my gut to the bottom of my throat.  I can barely breathe through the stiff wood that occupies a space in me that is usually so light and airy and overlooked, but now feels heavy and dead.  In contradiction to this feeling of dense, dead occupation of my insides -- of having something stuffed down my esophagus, an emptiness overwhelms me.  How can I feel empty yet simultaneously stuffed with dead weight?

I know what it is:  loneliness.

Thoughtfully, I tell myself that I am no more alone than I have ever been.

We are born alone; we die alone; yadda yadda yadda.

Still, I feel alone and empty, yet full of static, dead tree-trunk weight.

The D word came up.  Not divorce.  I won't allow myself to think about that.

Dating.

It was suggested that I need to go out on dates.  That we need to go out on dates.  This suggestion came out of a 48 hour session of tears and deep breaths and blubbering and other symptoms of a marathon emotional crisis.  The suggestion did little to help solve the crisis.

When he suggested it, my thoughts were sarcastic.  Yeah.  Right.  Who the fuck would I go out on a date with anyway?  Where do you meet people to go on dates?  I don't particularly relish participating in any kind of commonly-assumed dating-type of related activity.  I'm too old for this shit.

After the d'ing conversation, I go on a business trip.  There is a work related conference.  Suddenly I realise I am peeking at the hands of all the men I meet.  I am looking for wedding bands.  As if this means anything, anyway.  My Man never wore one; whereas plenty of men who do, play the field. I can't help myself though; it's part of putting things (these men) into context.

I don't want to date any of them; still, I scope them out for potential availability.

I am still wrecked with exhaustion.  Wrung dry from the emotional crisis in which the d word was broached.  (I repeating:  dating NOT divorce).  I cannot bother looking at these men at the conference any more.  I want to focus on work not on men as prospects.  I am so very tired of everything.

I take my plate of hors d'oeuvres to a quiet spot in the back of the room where I can sit on a step and forget about chit chatting and men and the possibility of dating.  I can stop - everything - networking, thinking, life; just for a few moments.  Before I really begin to enjoy this moment of solitude, I sense someone approaching.  A man has scoped me out.  Somehow I sensed the double-take, the checking me out, the coy approach to sit not right next to - but close by - so a tactful introduction could be made.

I take a breath to sum up the energy to deal with the impending interaction.

When he does clear his throat and stretch out his hand and smile when he introduces himself, I am lured in.  His features are individually wrong.  His eyes are too small and squinty and his lips too full.  His nose a bit bulbous, but they fit together to make a most attractive man.  His smile sweeps me off my feet.  We chat and laugh and chat some more --  nothing about work or this stupid conference.  I forget my self-pity.  As well as being charmed, I might even be charming.

We exchange business cards and go on our respective ways at the event.  I text him from the crowd to tell him I enjoyed our chat.  He responds:  we should share another drink before the end of the night.  But I only get this response after I have left the venue and have gone to bed.

The next day, I am walking through the lobby; I see him through the revolving doorway.  He is putting his bag in a  taxi.  "Hey!" I yell.  He turns and smiles.  A big, seemingly*-sincere grin.

"Hi, Ellie!  How funny ..." (I assume it is funny that we bump into each other here; we didn't know we were in the same hotel) "I'm off to the airport now."

"I can see that."  I don't even hesitate in saying:  "You were my favourite part of the conference!"

He doesn't hesitate in returning the compliment, "And you were mine."

He is all seemingly*-sincere big smiles. I want more time with this strange, oddly attractive man.  Timing is all wrong.  He tells me to stay in touch.  He waves good-bye from the taxi.

The tree trunk has turned to butterflies.  I chastise myself for letting myself get carried away by a chance encounter.  I wonder if I should write him.

You texted him first.  If he's really interested he'll write you.

I'm annoyed with how quickly I have joined the anguish-filled games associated with 'dating'.

*Seemingly because I suddenly don't trust my judge of character.  I don't trust men.  I have become a caricature of a single woman of  a certain age who thinks there must be something wrong with a man if he's around my age and not married.