A Whirlwind Summer Romance-Part II of III
Failed dinner together, jealous dinner with strangers, and anticipated desserts
Part II
In case you missed Part I, a blue-eyed stranger from a group dinner propositions me with a first date and a weekend together (which he calls the Nuclear Option). I rule out the Nuclear Option, so we start with coffee… and things escalate quickly.
ME
Sunday
In the morning, after our full Saturday of coffee, road trips into the past, and delicious kisses, Blue Eyes confesses to having read our text message thread several times. He asks me when I’m leaving.
My response is measured. I offer my sympathies for what he is going through and tactfully express gratitude for our good fortune to be situated to distract one another. On the inside, an insecure woman-child is locked behind the bars of my cool façade, screaming into the void raw pain that, if she could articulate herself in the soft yellow glow of a therapist’s couch-side lamp, would say, “I am not a distraction! I am lovable, dammit! I am desirable! I want the whole romance cake, not just the dry crumbs that spell out words like rebound, cheap, and fling. Certainly not distraction!” She’d have disdainfully spit on the therapist's faux-Indian rug before burying her face in the last tissue poking out of a now empty Kleenex box.
I try to guess his astrological sign and am completely wrong. He’s a Pisces—my polar opposite. The most incompatible sign possible. I am partially relieved. He checks my proclamation of incompatibility with AI, which agrees with me. “Well, shucks,” he says. “We had a good run.”
I tell him that I would say that I wish we had met under different circumstances, but then we’d be different people. He says he’s grateful we met under these circumstances. Our meeting has restored his faith in dating and his ability to move on. My caged inner woman-child screams again and kicks the empty Kleenex box off the table, toppling the lamp. I reply, “That sounds like a good thing.”
He shows me a street-view snapshot of where he grew up. It is so similar to the scene I shared with him the previous afternoon that I get chills. There are more densely packed trees around his single-wide trailer in the swamplands of Southern Mississippi, but otherwise a very similar scene. A pang of guilt for the selfish behavior of my inner child prompts me to promise not to look him up online again. And I don’t.
He sends me a link to the YouTube video for Benson Boone’s Beautiful Things. I ask him if he’s trying to make me cry. He sends me another video of dancers on stage singing Turn It Off from The Book of Mormon. He’s being sweet and vulnerable, telling me that the pure ridiculousness of the message actually helped him to process the emotions he felt surrounding his own grief.
I remind myself that I’ve never been here before. There is no script to follow. Perhaps I should take this advice – turn it off.
Later in the afternoon, he asks for a picture to attach to my contact card in his phone, admitting that he forgot my last name, which he didn’t want to commit to memory anyway because he might be tempted to look me up and ruin what we have with outside BS. I wonder how he knows so well what to do.
My son’s father’s sibling (a perhaps convoluted way to describe this person) asks if anyone wants a Tarot reading as I’m sitting at the dining room table, trying to hide the spontaneous smiles caused by messages from Blue Eyes. Amused, because I haven’t had a Tarot reading in many years, I tell them to lay it on me.
It’s a four-card spread. The first card, the situation, is the Knight of Cups. But because they are using the Disney Villains deck, it’s Gaston. I chuckle inwardly to myself because Blue Eyes is all I can think about, and I feel like the cards are immediately calling me out. But the Tarot Reader assumes this must be about the memoir I’ve written and my writing career. I listen to the interpretation, knowing it is my love life, without question, that the cards are addressing. My son’s father appears to know it too–his face is smug and I can almost hear him biting his tongue.
The second card, the challenge or obstacle, is the Wheel of Fortune. The third, the outcome, is the Ten of Cups, reversed. Unfortunately, this card suggests disillusionment or unmet expectations. Finally, the fourth card is advice: Six of Swords, reversed. This card warns of clinging to old patterns: Let go of emotional attachments and past setbacks. I need to let go of something.
I’m of two minds. I do have a spiritual side and used to believe in the magic of Tarot and divination. But, as a research psychologist, I also know that we read into these vague messages what we want or expect to hear. And either way I want to look at it, the message appears to be clear. I’m scared. And I should guard myself.
But I’m so easily disarmed by the next incoming message from Blue Eyes. He says he feels like a teenager again. “wth did you do to me, Heidi?” My inner woman-child groans. I want to reciprocate. I want to accuse him of casting his charm on me unfairly. But I tell him I’m feeling the same way. Without taking his foot off the pedal, he says the thrill of new experiences tends to die down as we get older, because they aren’t all that new anymore, but that this experience has “broken that record player, so to speak. It’s off script. . .” He goes on to tease me, calling me “Doctor” and asking me to diagnose him.
I tell him it’s likely just the novelty—unlike me, he’s just barely coming out of a marriage that was double the length of mine. But I don’t want to cheapen the magical feeling of the moment.
He says he expected it might be novelty, too. “But it’s the psychological connection... The similar background, not just where we grew up... even having kids at such a young age and fighting against everyone else’s better judgment to carry them to term and raise them… It’s the thought of that soul-to-soul connection that seems to be fueling my fire.” My inner woman-child is eating this feast like a starved urchin in the streets of Calcutta.
“Let’s just ride this wave,” I advise, more for myself than for him. We continue the conversation with playful ribbing. Emboldened by our shared marvel at the unfolding off-script plot, I ask if he’s free for dinner.
The Boyscout
Applebee’s
On Sunday, just 4 days after “Dinner With Strangers,” I received a text from Heidi expressing her desire to meet for dinner. At the time that I received the text, I just so happened to have a plate full of food at a buffet, a long list of things to do before bed, and a burning desire to see her despite all of that. Secretly, I worry that the more time we spend together, the less likely the “Nuclear Option” becomes. I tell her I’m super busy with a lot to do. That’s not a lie, and it preserves the status quo. After all, part of the excitement is the longing… the unmet desires… and quite honestly, the more we get to know each other, the more likely it is that we find something about one another that turns us off. Right? I desperately don’t want to screw this seemingly magical thing up.
However, like any drug addict will tell you, the promise of that next fix can make you make some irresponsible decisions. My drug of choice is Heidi. To hell with my to-do list, I’m going to see her. I signal my willingness to join her as she eats dinner. By that time, she (sadly) says she’s getting Panera at the drive-through. DAMNIT! A few moments later, she says Panera was out of everything she liked. WINNING! One of the items on my to-do list is to charge Eleanor (At this point, I realize that the readers haven’t been properly introduced to my car, which I affectionately call Eleanor. I’ll remedy that shortly). I remember that there’s a Tesla Supercharging station in the Applebee’s parking lot. I recommend Applebee’s, and she immediately responds that she’s on her way.
By the time I arrive at Applebee’s, Heidi has secured a booth and a flight of cocktails. I order a cider. She tells me that she really did eat Panera already, but she really wanted to see me, so she neglected to say she’d eaten. With that confession, I realize that we’re both little drug addicts, and we are each other’s drug of choice. The chemistry I’m feeling is off the charts. After drinking the cider and some of the cocktails, I pay and invite Heidi to join me as I charge Eleanor.
Eleanor
My car, Eleanor, is a black-on-black Tesla Model S with the newest A.I.4 hardware. I had dreamed of getting a Tesla since 2004, when it only had one model in the works and it hadn’t even moved into production yet. I followed the company closely as it began producing the one model, and then expanded to another model around 2013. Unfortunately, my meager pay, combined with the high MSRP, meant it had to stay a pipedream. Fast forward to 2023 and my pay is far better, while the price of the car has become borderline affordable. When Tesla offered me $40,000 for my truck, which I paid $42,000 for when it was brand new 5 years prior… I pulled the trigger.
Now, a lot happened between 2004 and 2023, including Tesla’s very famous frontman going from a hero of the left to a villain (and vice versa to the right). From right-wingers vandalizing Tesla cars and superchargers, to left-wingers vandalizing Tesla cars and superchargers. However, to feel peer pressure from one side, you have to like one side. I am not a fan of either side, so I don’t care about any of that. It’s a hell of a car, I’d long dreamt of one, and I finally bought one…. Eleanor. I went all-in on the bells and whistles, and I customized and modded her to give her something of a personality. She feels more like a sexy female chauffeur than a car… driving me wherever I want to go, picking me up when I want to be picked up, and as I was about to learn… seemingly trying to get me laid. Which brings us back to the Supercharger behind the Applebee’s parking lot.
Supercharged
Heidi and I go out to my car. I forget to open her door for her. DAMNIT. “Some gentleman I am?!?” I regretfully think to myself. I pull around to the back of the parking lot where the Tesla charging stalls are. I remark on how easy it is to charge my car. At that moment, something that never happened before happens: The charger is broken. DAMNIT. Now I look foolish. I pull to the next one; also broken. DAMNIT. Finally, the one closest to a dumpster actually works. There’s trash on the ground, and the area looks horrid. “Very romantic” we sarcastically remark.
In the car, we share a kiss and engage in some deep (and some shallow) conversation. I share with her that I’ve felt uneasy. She acknowledges that she felt my unease in the restaurant. Then I tell her why: I’m in a holding pattern until my divorce is final. While my wife and I have agreed to an amicable divorce, and to see other people, due to almost tragically comical timing and circumstance, it’ll be at least 6 months until it's finalized. Until that time, I exist in a gray area in which a romantic relationship can cause significant complications for my life. After all, I had originally said I was not interested in dating. I went to “Dinner with Strangers” to find people to go hiking with for crying out loud! How was I supposed to know I’d meet my potential SOULMATE who was “just passing through”?
Of course, I don’t tell her that’s what I’m feeling. Truth be told, I’m not even sure it is how I feel, but I’m beginning to open my eyes to the possibility. I wrap my feelings in a cover story of a “summer fling” or “amazing experience”. She suggests we enjoy the experience of it, which I echo and amplify, and so I do exactly that. I set my mind to be akin to a knight in feelings-proof armor, I’ll lift my mask only long enough to engage in physical and metaphorical kisses. Moments after that thought, Heidi leans over the center console and kisses me deeply. At that moment, with both of my hands on Heidi and both of Heidi’s hands on me, for a reason that I’ll never know, my seat leans back about 4 inches. We both take obvious note of it. “Is Eleanor trying to get me laid?” I joke, but also quietly wonder.
We discuss the “Nuclear Option” which is looking increasingly certain. We already can’t keep our hands off of one another, causing our desire for one another to build with no relief in sight. I tell her how much I enjoy the pressure, and that on day 1 of the Nuclear Option, I want to wait until we are all done for the day before we finally relieve the pressure. Since the first date will include us checking into a one-bedroom Airbnb, getting dressed for dinner, and then into our swimsuits to soak, we will have to practice “Impulse Restraint” during that time. I’ll later explain that I used the word “restraint” instead of “control” because restraint implies an increased level of flexibility. She responds that the subtle distinction was not lost on her when I said it, and that she also looks forward to it.
We embrace again, kiss a few more times, and say our respective goodbyes. This unscheduled date has been a success. We spoke about serious issues and didn’t manage to screw the magic of it all up. We say we are both looking forward to Wednesday, when we get to have dinner again.
Me
Sunday Evening
Miscommunication. He’s afraid of screwing this up. Our excitement might fade if we see each other too much. I concede to seeing him at the next Timeleft dinner on Wednesday. Screw it, where should we meet? He’s already eaten. He feels guilty. I feel dejected by his guilt. I suggest Panera Bread. His guilt has subsided. Too much work to do. Yeah, me too. There’s a place for him to charge his car near an Applebee’s. Panera doesn’t have what I want, but I order food anyway because I’m hungry. I’m at Applebee’s early.
He shows up looking pensive and doesn’t relax when I ask him to sit next to me in the booth. There’s an invisible wall between us. When I ask him what he’s thinking, he says he should charge his car.
In the car, we reflect on the liminal space we are both occupying. He’s in an administrative waiting room for months before he’s eligible to file for divorce. I have barely begun to process the reality that the man in my apartment was mine when I left and is no longer. He’s only in Albuquerque for a couple of years with no idea where he’ll go from here. I’m here for a precious few more days. The liminal space requires affairs of the heart (and all that’s attached to it) to be transitory. Impermanent. Off-script.
I lament the Universe’s sick sense of humor in a text message once home. He assures me that we can text and, “if we both end up forever alone, maybe we can do some international travel one day.”
My inner woman-child rattles the bars of her cage. “No! Suffer with me!” she silently screams, “Feel the pain of longing more than the comfort of connection—it’s only fair!”
Monday
We agree that this unexpected connection we’ve found must be put in writing.
Driving, I hear a song that he plans to sing in the car on our way to the Nuclear Option. Shortly after, another song that he had proudly boasted that he could sing well. When I tell him I’m not looking these songs up, they are just appearing on the radio, he says, “The universe is getting less subtle.”
At the upcoming dinner on Wednesday, we’re going to roleplay as if we only know one another from last week’s dinner and haven’t been swimming in infatuation for days. Whoever breaks first must be punished somehow, something playful. I love this challenge. It feels. . . fitting.
He books the accommodations for the Nuclear Option and says he’s watching Eat, Pray, Love to get insight into me. Flattered and excited that he’d spend time researching my interests this way, I queue up my copy and watch along with him. He tells me I should watch Scent of a Woman for insight into him. I laugh inwardly because a previous boyfriend and his father were also fans of this movie. I had never watched it and had no desire to. But I’m so enjoying our playfulness, our unconventionally deep dives into vulnerability, that I find the voice in my head whispering comfortingly, “Beginner’s mind.”
We discuss the scenes as they come up. He’s moved by the depth and relatability of the dialogue. He asks me if I can teach him meditation. I don’t know if he’s serious, but I say I’m willing. Which feels absolutely laughable and hypocritical. He should be teaching me how to stay focused on the present.
In fact, so in the moment is he that he forgets all about the movie to continue a thread of conversation with me, rerouting us to our deal for Wednesday night. He offers a massage as the stakes, then immediately changes his mind when I agree to it. “I am learning that you are fickle,” I say.
“About some things,” he offers.
We have our first over-the-phone conversation. His voice on the other end of the line startles me before I quickly relax into his subtle accent, his giggles, and his boyish earnestness. We talk for two hours, so much like giddy teenagers. The time passing only becomes apparent when I realize we are about to cross over the midnight threshold into the next day.
Tuesday
I watch Scent of a Woman in spurts, in between paying bills, washing and folding laundry, and watching Rick and Morty with my son. At lunch, Blue Eyes and I share pictures of our food. I spend the afternoon canvassing Edgewood with flyers for my study and enjoying a brief visit with my nephew. For the first time in six days, busying myself keeps constant thoughts of Blue Eyes at bay.
Near the end of the day, we exchange our busy-body stories, as if any moment not spent on one another must be justified. He tells me about an issue he dealt with at work. A pattern is emerging from his stories involving women in the military, and I wonder at all of the military families’ unique stressors.
We aren’t scheduled to sit together at the dinner the next night and fantasize about ways to keep our role-playing plan going. Our conversation spills over the night, hopping from discussing scenes in Scent of a Woman, which he watches in sync, to the structure and process of sex, to the peace that has kept his inner critic from entering his mind since he met me.
I’m jealous of this peace. I want to experience it with him, with the same lightness, the same immediacy.
We talk about the color of each other’s eyes and the values of courage and integrity. We’ll finish watching Eat, Pray, Love together this weekend.
The Boyscout
Dinner With Strangers 2.0
It’s Wednesday night, exactly one week since Heidi and I first met at the previous “Dinner with Strangers”. We had agreed to pretend we didn’t know one another at this one. She and I had made a playful wager. The first one to break character or whose cover is blown, has to give the other a striptease. There was no way that I was going to lose this bet! Conveniently, we were designated to sit at different tables. Advantage: Me. I thought this worked to my advantage simply because I planned to cast “do-me” eyes at Heidi, which I’d strongly suspected would knock her right out of “the zone” while she engaged in conversation with others. It was a good plan
.
It took a while to find a spot to park, and as soon as I entered the restaurant, it’s clear that my plan had to be thrown out of the window. Heidi is sitting at my table! Worst yet, there are 4 people on the side opposite Heidi, and only 3 on her side. This meant I’d have to sit RIGHT NEXT TO HER. Advantage: Heidi. I sit and introduce myself. Heidi and I pretend to vaguely remember one another from the previous week only because another guy at the table was also seated at our table last time.
Before I can fully contemplate what schemes Heidi must have concocted in order to get seated at my table without blowing her cover, she does something that completely knocks me out of character: She takes my fork and eats her food with it…. in plain view of everyone at the table. She’d had a plausible cover story, of course, but it would seem to still appear a bit forward to strangers. I think for just a moment that I won, and I quietly whisper to her “That should cost you points”. Shortly after hearing this, she flags down the waitress and asks for another fork since she had used mine. Guess she got her points back, but my plan was shot and I was now woefully off of any script I had planned to use. I try to make small talk to calm my nerves.
As I’m asking the other people at the table about their backgrounds, I feel Heidi’s hand running slowly and teasingly up my inner thigh under the table. So much for calming my nerves. She’s in total control of this situation, I’m woefully out of my depth, and she knows it. She’s absolutely RADIATING it.
We move outside due to the volume of the live music inside making it hard to communicate across the table. We sit on opposite sides of the table. After a few minutes, Heidi says that she needs to use the bathroom, and so I also use that as an opportunity to excuse myself for the same reason. We walk back into the restaurant together, sharing a few playful words about how we think its going along the way. The path to the bathroom takes us down a secluded hallway. We use that seclusion as an opportunity to share a few quick, but passionate kisses. We then use our respective bathrooms and return to the table together. This time, she sat next to me. In a desperate attempt to claw back some semblance of competitiveness, I use the opportunity to run my hand up her thigh. She’s visibly unaffected. I know that below the surface, she feels it, but she’s in the zone and isn’t giving an inch. My hand retreats in defeat…. a playful, exciting, awesome experience of defeat.
Me
Wednesday
He has a surprise for me. It will be ready on Friday. I tell him that spending time with him has been the best surprise I’ve had in a long time. My inner woman-child and I are one and the same when I say this. He can’t keep the secret, though, and admits he’s writing a version of this post from his perspective. I’m about 2% scared of what I’ll read and 98% overjoyed that he wanted to do this.
We both have trouble finding parking at dinner. When I walk in, the hostess tells me my table, Table 2, is full, and sits me at Table 1, where Blue Eyes comes to sit next to me a few minutes after I introduce myself to everyone else. The moment I see him, I feel I’ve lost our bet. Surely everyone around could see me glowing as he walked in! That same flood of comfort and joy I felt on Saturday washed over me as he approached the table and pretended to barely know me. But his eyes gave him away just as much.
Dinner did not disappoint. I went to high school with the woman sitting across from me—we recognize one another, but can’t recall any shared classes. She’s an artist, specializing in oil painting while doing a few other things to make money. Another man is writing a fantasy novel. Another woman works on base with Blue Eyes. I feel myself prickle and sip my water. A seventh woman (really, I was the seventh because I wasn’t supposed to be at that table) arrives, apologizing for being late. The weather, she locked her keys and phone in her car…
The live music makes hearing one another difficult. We play musical chairs for better acoustics before transferring to a table outside. Blue Eyes and I playfully try to break one another. When we both have to go to the restroom at the same time, we sneak a brief hand squeeze and furtive kisses before walking back out and sitting next to one another. The woman who arrived late takes notice that I’ve moved from sitting next to her to sitting next to him.
As we play a fun game of guessing movies and songs from quotes, Blue Eyes briefly puts his hand on my thigh. Not to be outdone, I slide my hand up his inseam and squeeze his inner thigh for a few seconds before releasing my grip. I ask him if he can guess the movie from the last quote offered at the table. “I can’t think of anything right now,” he playfully hisses at me. I relish in being able to affect him.
As we get up to say our goodbyes, the late-arriving woman exchanges numbers with me and also with Blue Eyes. “Nice to see you again!” he says while giving me a quick, stiff hug. I’m taken aback, surprised that he’s still role-playing. When we walk out the gate, it’s late, nearly midnight, and we’re downtown. I want to ask him for a ride to my car, but he’s walking quickly away in the opposite direction with the other woman. Alarm bells ring loudly in my head. Do I holler at him and blow his cover? No, I scold myself, kicking my inner woman-child back into her cage, don’t cockblock him. That’s not fair. Just get to your car as quickly as you can.
I rush the two blocks in the dark, hoping not to be approached, silently cursing Blue Eyes for leaving me. Factions are at war in my brain, and the shrapnel is piercing my heart. When he calls several minutes later, after I’ve already driven a few miles, my emotions are shrouded in chainmail, which is useless, of course, because I can’t keep my mouth shut.
“I was hoping you were going to walk me to my car,” I admit after he tells me that I lost our bet because the woman noticed a hand on a leg. I bitterly ask him why that came up in conversation, assuming they were feeling one another out for possible mate potential, and hating myself for giving a shit.
He insists that he was expressing his interest in me and asks to meet me where I am. I pull over into an empty parking lot of a closed Starbucks and wait, my dignity seeping through the chainmail. A text message from the late woman assures me that Blue Eyes and I are cute, and she didn’t mean to steal a walk. It’s not her fault. She confirms, however, that it was his hand on my leg that she saw, not the other way around. I smile and tell her he owes me now. But I feel dirty, like I’m consorting with the enemy. I know I’m not. I know I’m not. I know I’m not. Sigh.
I want to feel comforted again when he pulls up, but my inner woman-child has completely busted out of her cage and is wreaking havoc. I open my door and allow him to kiss his apologies. He shows me pictures of where we will stay for the Nuclear Option. My son calls to ask when I’m coming home, and when he gets off the phone, Blue Eyes compliments me on raising a very sweet boy. In this moment, I feel unencumbered pride and appreciation for my son.
We make out for a few minutes before he leaves, and I’m partially relieved.
I assure him I’m home safely. He says he’s still kicking himself. I tell him that it doesn’t matter. None of this matters. I’m still looking forward to our Nuclear Option weekend, and I still had fun with him tonight. This is the treaty that the factions within me came up with. Unfortunately, they aren’t too creative and have absolutely repurposed a well-worn script.
The next incoming text message starts with “Boo...” and I can’t discern whether he is calling me “Boo” as a term of endearment, or if he’s booing my bitterness. But he assures me that he has what he wants, and I’m the only one he wants to be a better man for. At first, I try to tell myself not to buy it. Then I try to tell myself to let him say whatever he wants, it doesn’t matter anyway. Then, my inner yogi faction, God bless them, whispers, “Believe him. Beginners mind. Non-judgment. Non-reactivity.” And I know these are the only options that lead to peace. So, I change the subject. I give him a new name: Honeybee, because, like Al Pacino, he hasn’t forgotten the taste of real honey. He calls me Honey Bunny because we both enjoy movie quotes and Pulp Fiction. My inner woman-child wants it to be because that’s Tim Roth’s ride-or-die.
The Boyscout
Mistakes Were Made
As we all get up to say our goodbyes, I’m so excited to talk to her and share how amazing this experience was, boy do I screw up BIG TIME. I had parked around 5 blocks from the restaurant, so I knew I’d be in for a long walk. Instead of doing the gentlemanly thing and offering to walk her back to her car, in a moment of idiot-brain, I immediately began the walk to mine. Worst yet, one of the other “strangers” at dinner had apparently parked her car right next to mine. Even worse, she was pretty, and worst yet, throughout the night she was pleasant, playful, and charismatic…. and now it appears like I’m walking her to her car. The fact that it was purely coincidence that she was parked next to me, and that along the walk back I could not resist telling her how taken I am with Heidi, seems irrelevant. I shared the game Heidi and I were playing, and she admits to have noticed that there was chemistry between us, including noticing the “hand on the thigh”. I WON! I immediately assumed she meant that she saw Heidi’s hand on my thigh, and not my pathetic, short lived attempt to reciprocate.
When I finally got to my car, I called Heidi for what I foolishly expected to be a completely happy conversation where we finally got to shed our characters and share what had been going on in our minds throughout the night. She’s quick to point out that she was surprised at how I simply left, leaving her to walk through a dark area to her car alone….. while I walked a pretty stranger to her car. My disappointment in myself is deep and immediate. The more I thought about it, the worse I felt, and worse yet, I put my foot in my mouth while trying to explain what had been going on in my head. I feel absolutely awful, and there’s no way I can let this amazing night end on this sour note. Although it's already late and I have to be at work early, I ask her to stop somewhere and I’ll meet her there. She says she’s stopping at a closed Starbucks and sends me a pin.
I arrive at Starbucks, which is closed with only 1 car in the empty parking lot: Heidi’s. I park, get out of my car and into hers. I greet her with a kiss and apologize profusely for my absentmindedness. I worry that I’ve screwed everything up. She reciprocates my kiss and shares my joy at this unscheduled meeting. Her son calls, so I go quiet. He seems incredibly sweet and concerned for his mother, reminding me of my own similarly sweet son. We talked about how the wager went. I share that the pretty stranger I had inadvertently walked to her car noticed her hand on my thigh, meaning that I won the bet. Heidi shares her dread at having to perform a striptease for me at some point. It doesn’t come natural to her, as it wouldn’t have to me…. but that wasn’t my problem. I’d won.
After we share a final kiss, we go our separate ways. We each go back to our respective houses and continue the conversation over text messaging. She received a text from the pretty stranger: It wasn’t Heidi’s hand on my thigh that she’d seen after all. It was my hand on Heidi’s. Around this time, I received a text from the stranger as well “Thomas! Apparently it's you who owes Heidi a strip tease! It was your hand I saw on her leg!” FUCK. I again apologize for my absentmindedness and acknowledge the obvious: I lost in every way, and I absolutely owe Heidi a striptease.
We’d previously agreed to execute the “Nuclear Option” on the long July 4th weekend, so now I would be adding a striptease to the various other promises I’d made…. A list which now included a striptease, singing “Devil Went Down to Georgia” Karaoke, soaking in a hot spring together, watching a movie in bed together, a full-body massage, and most boldly… sex so mind-blowingly good that I’d “ruin other men for you”. The promises were piling up quickly, but I had every intention of keeping each and every one of them. Wednesday is behind us, and I’m feeling tremendous levels of excitement and nervous, sexual tension building for Friday… when we were to finally execute the much anticipated “Nuclear Option”.
Me
Thursday
In the morning, the factions are quiet, and I admit that I was holding back last night. He means a lot to me, and I want him to know that. He reacts to my message with a heart. He tells me that he forgets everything else when he’s in my presence. “If heaven exists, I imagine that it must feel similar to how I feel when I’m with you.” I react to this message with a heart, too.
He suggests a therapeutic thought experiment in which we imagine the trivial things we might argue about if we were together for years rather than days. At first, I find the assignment nearly impossible—I don’t know him well enough to know what we’d fight about, beyond his thoughtlessly letting me walk alone in a bad neighborhood in the middle of the night and my jealousy. But he finds my jealousy flattering and suggests it could be jealousy on his end when I travel to conduct interviews as I’m doing now, or because he spends too much time making models with his 3D printer.
I realize with this thought experiment that the what of the argument was indeed often trivial in my past relationships. But the how of the argument mattered. So I share this with him and admit that I’ve been accused of being cold, especially when I’m defensive. He reassures me that tomorrow is going to be a good day.
The Nuclear Option loomed ahead of me. Perhaps I should have been nervous or cautious. But I was 98% excited and only 2% filled with dread for what the Tarot cards warned would be disappointment and disillusionment. Neither my excitement nor my dread, however, prepared me for the mind-altering intensity of what was to come.
Part III Coming Next Week!
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I've enjoyed this a great deal, and look forward to the adventures ahead.