Why Did It Move Me....

Why did it move me, whatever he said? Why do I still savor the few delicious words that survived my alcohol induced fog? Why do I long for more?

Last week Rachel* and I enjoyed an impromptu girls’ night out so much that we decided to repeat it, this time including our lazy, undependable friends. I knew it was probably a mistake. Those evenings always turn out so great just because they are impromptu … no expectations. However, I couldn’t resist inviting everyone once plans were secured with Rachel and Miranda*. We were to meet for dinner, move from there to TP’s, and then head downtown to hear my nephew’s band. I didn’t ask for any confirmations unless they intended to eat dinner. Otherwise, they could just catch up with us whenever, if ever. The first mistake is leaving plans open like that. While saying that it doesn’t matter whether anyone else shows up, you can’t help but watch for them.

It was just the three of us at dinner. Looked like it would be just us three for the night, but then The Flirt showed up. The party band kicked into gear, and the primarily middle-aged patrons hit the dance floor. We amused ourselves with watching them and pointing out the funny ones, the drunk ones, or the pathetic ones. The Flirt sat across from me. Having only finished off my first drink, I had difficulty maintaining eye contact. I longed for the booze to set me at ease. We’d had one other encounter since Halloween night, even more intimate, and it was the last time I saw him. If we had spoken more in the time since, it wouldn’t have felt so awkward … if I didn’t know about his little “booty call” in Kentucky during my New Year’s Eve party, or if I hadn’t confronted him over instant messenger about that and other perceived slights. I noticed that he wasn’t quite himself, either, but I doubted it had to do with me. He asked where the guitar friend was, and I replied that I had no idea … that I hadn’t heard from anyone really, and didn’t know who would show up. I realized that he missed male company that would echo his machismo. He spoke on his cell phone often, some received and some outbound calls, never offering the names from the other end. After another hour, he announced that Big Red and two other friends were coming. Into my third drink, I was finally comfortable with him.

We stayed and danced a little more after Big Red and the girls arrived. I could tell they weren’t very impressed with the band or the crowd, but they did get into the party atmosphere a little. One of the girls took The Flirt to the floor for a slow dance. Rachel turned to me and said, “The Flirt has two women here that he’s fooled around with.” I told her that I’d thought of that. He had both of his “booty calls” in the same place at the same time. We both laughed. His dance partner was the one who came as “Cher” to my Halloween party a year ago, and with whom he had conspicuously disappeared that night. I watched them. It meant nothing to me, and yet I wished he had asked or would ask me to dance … a small stroke of the ego, a reassurance that he enjoyed having me in his arms. I announced that we would leave once the band did their “party thing” – a dance gauntlet of sorts. Try as I might to push the girls out there, they wouldn’t go, but Rachel and I both showed off. Afterwards, we collected the checks. I handed mine over to The Flirt. He owed me money from last summer, and since I knew I would never get the cash out of him, I told him that he was paying for my drinks all night. He was surprisingly cooperative.

Rachel, Miranda and I arrived downtown together. The Flirt arrived by himself. The rest of our group had abandoned us for other entertainment. After The Flirt bought my first drink at the bar, Rachel told me that my guitar friend was there with some friends. He had informed her that since it was past midnight, it was technically his birthday. I waited a couple of minutes before approaching him, repeating what I’d heard and wishing him a happy birthday. He introduced me to his friends. I carefully repeated each name to secure it for memory. I recognized two of them. The other two were unfamiliar, and I wondered if the woman next to him meant anything special. Rachel wondered the same when I returned to her. Then, while we danced a few feet from the stage, my guitar friend approached to stand behind us. The girl came with him, dancing provocatively against him. Question answered. I was disappointed, even a little hurt. I had known something was up. I had even offered him a chance to come clean about it during a conversation about him missing the New Year’s Eve party. Why didn’t he take the bait? Why are men such cowards with women, acting as though we’ll shatter if they indicate disinterest in us? I would have rather learned about his new girl then rather than being surprised by it in person. Nonetheless, I kept up my spirited, care-free appearance, and suppressed my ego-bruised tears. I frolicked and laughed in hopes of putting a little damper on his ego … making him wonder why I didn’t seem to care. I was thankful to have The Flirt there, using him as a buffer from feeling like the undesirable cast-off.

It didn’t seem long before The Flirt told me he was leaving. I walked with him to the bar. As he took care of his tab, I thanked him for being there. It turned out great for me that he was with us. I asked him to stay … offered to let him sleep in my spare room if he rode with us, but he had reached that point I’d seen so often, where he starts shutting down. As I spoke with him, I noticed my guitar friend closing out his tab down the bar. “Oh, there he is,” I uttered in mid-sentence.

“Who?” The Flirt asked, whipping around to see. He incorrectly guessed at some other guy.

“What? No, GF!” (get it? Guitar Friend…?) “You know, we dated for a couple of months,” I clarified.

“No! Well, that would have been good to know.” I didn’t know what he meant by that. I couldn’t believe he had been so oblivious.

I looked at him imploringly and asked, “Why do all the guys dump me to go out with homely girls.” Here was the crux of my pathos. My vanity aside, they had moved on. They each found someone new. Feelings or no feelings involved, both the SoHB and my guitar friend were involved with new people while I wallowed in singleness. At that moment all I felt was the rejection.

His arms engulfed my shoulders. I clung to his waist, holding him close for comfort, but also to make my guitar friend suspicious of us. I desperately wanted to avoid being the pitiable spurned girl … probably overdid it. I must have blamed sex for my rejections, for he cooed soothing words saying that it doesn’t matter, not when you care for the person.

“Do you know what happened with the SoHB?” I asked, not caring whether he wanted to hear. “He told me he had feelings for me, but then decided it was more important to get laid.”

“Oh, well, I’m not saying…” he began, but his words didn’t reach my ears. I may have elaborated on my experience. I may have painted a brief verbal picture of the last intimate moments I shared with the SoHB, but I can’t remember. “He wasn’t right for you, anyway,” he said.

“I know. I know, but it hurts,” I replied.

His head was bent near mine in order to better hear. He stilled with his lips near mine. I thought we would kiss, but he didn’t move when I reached for him, responding, “No, I’d better not.”

“Come on, it’s just a kiss. What harm is a kiss?” I asked, but he wouldn’t.

My memory becomes vague. I recall him saying how tempted he was during our last encounter … how much he had wanted to take things to their natural conclusion. Then he said the words that reached my deepest fears and consoled me best. He told me that I was doing it the right way, and that he admired me for it. I was nearly in tears as I thanked him. We embraced a final time, and he left.

Were they nothing more than placating words from a friend wishing to console me? Was there any truth to them? If not, does it matter? The fact is that he said what I needed to hear, whether or not the sentiment was genuine. I run them over in my mind. Someone who chose a different path, and still chooses it, admires me for mine. I am moved. I am inspired. I’m grateful.

* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.