Therapist goes on vacation, I take stock of what is like to be a Scorpio

Therapist's going to Italy, Paris and Brussels for 3-week vacation. Won't see me until end of June. She says that I don't need to see others while she's gone. I guess I am her model patient. I suspect that she enjoys me telling her my stories.  Every bit of it. I am a good storyteller. I pay attention to details because details matter.

She's from Chicago and asks me to say hi to Michigan Ave. She used to have two offices facing the lake. I say to her that I will not try to think of my past, but instead focus on the future.  Yet, when I talk about Chicago, I realize that my subconscious mind knows more than my conscious mind let on.

Examples: I have found myself having a conversation with her about the elevated trains (What? I was on those trains before?) and the wind on the top of the Sears Tower (I was at the top of it before I went to the Empire State building. I remember telling my companion in New York that this is not nearly as windy as the Sears Tower.) I tell her that I used to go to bars and drink beer (Really? Beer? Me?). There was a big dog at my friend's house. We would go and grab White Castle burgers at 3 AM (This is way before that Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle movie was made, by about 10 years.) The Northwestern games we went to were fun (What? I watched college football?) and the tailgate parties were the bomb.  And I remembered sitting at a Greek restaurant, looking out, and the rest I shall not put down.

“Scorpio woman is very emotional, very demanding and very demonstrative. She is full of flair and intrigue.”

She: "You know that book Fifty Shades of Gray?"

I: "Yes I told you the last time. But you know why I don't read it."

She: "You are ahead of your time."

I have heard that exact comment before, once, at a restaurant, in the fall, sitting by the counter, eating a meal with an old friend, in a funky little restaurant full of old short wave radios, South of Market. I remember feeling out of place. A place not for someone like me. I don't remember where it is, but I do remember hearing him saying that exact words to me. My life, as it turns out, is taking a different turn of a sort at that precise moment. He and I don’t talk about such things any longer.  In fact we rarely talk.

I miss our interactions more than anything else.  I don’t have many old friends from more than a decade ago. Sometimes people grow apart as they grow closer. Sometimes only time will gain one’s perspective.  I miss him as a friend. He used to write every so often, giving me an update of his life.  But I now know nothing about him. But I trust that one day that person will come back. He’s a friend for more than fourteen years and he will remain to be my friend. I’m loyal to my friends.

“Underneath the cool exterior, energies and emotions are constantly flowing but the Scorpio deals with this be channeling this into useful activities, hobbies, relationships or a career. This is never apparent to the outside observer but knowing this fact explains why Scorpios are so passionate about whatever it is that they are undertaking.” 

The best advice is to be honest with a Scorpio friend and in return, you will gain an amazing friend you will never forget and who will be loyal to you and never make false promises. Their truthful and shocking sense of humor if different than that of any other zodiac sign and the Scorpio makes an amazing, powerful interesting friend that can be trusted.”

As I continue my dialogue with my therapist, on the subject of writing, I tell her one day I will write my story. She said, "But wait until you are truly old." I will be writing, in my 80s, hopefully far away, in France. Maybe alone, maybe not. But I won't be lonely. I'm good at gathering friends. As it turns out.

“Scorpios are fiercely independent. They are able to accomplish anything they put their mind to and they won't give up. They are perfectly suited to being on their own. They are not social butterflies like some other zodiac signs and some actually prefer to live on their own that way there is never any issue of who controls what at home, they like to be in control.”

Dead won’t tell no tale. My stories, hopefully, by then, will involve those who will no longer be alive.

I hug her and wish her a good journey.

As we part, she asks "what is your mood today?" I say, "a solid 7." I've only given a 7 once since I've met her: It was a particularly sunny spring day, Thursday morning, something had happened the night before, and I was feeling wonderfully alive. I remembered her looking at me, full of weary. "I don't like this. This." As it turned out, she was right. As I slipped into darkness, one week exactly, and as things perpetually went down hill, I wondered aloud, "Why?  Why me?"

“Scorpios are all about control, they need to be in control at all times. To be out of control is very threatening, even dangerous to the Scorpio's psyche, when they control, they feel safe.

Scorpios are constantly trying to understand their emotions through finding a deeper purpose in life.”

But I'm good at regenerating like a true Scorpio.

My best friend is really into astrology. He is a Scorpio like me. Whenever I'm down, he says "you are a Scorpio, start acting like one."

I finally looked up on what being a Scorpio is meant: http://zodiac-signs-astrology.com/zodiac-signs/scorpio.htm.

I am annoyed - because he's putting me in a box, even though that box does fit.

The unintended stare and its effect

I have thus decided, never stare.

Am on the bus again, heading home from a rather non-eventful day at the office. A man, with dark suit jacket, and dark glasses is sitting in front of me. I am not  trying to look at him, I don't have a habit of staring at people I don't know in public, but somehow I just feel that I am drawn to the back of him.

Just at that precise moment, he must have felt the stare or he has eyes on the back of his head, so he turns to look at me. Meeting my unintended gaze.

He does not recognize me, I do not recognize him. We establish a hurried stare, for a brief moment, eyes lock. Then he looks away and so do I.

But my heart sinks a little. He looks like someone I once have known.

Therein lays the problem.

We tend not to like to remember things we try to forget. People that affect us so, and then we try our best throughout our remaining life to forget about them.  Until they sneak up on you.

He reminds me of someone whom I never want to have in my conscious thoughts again.

A man with chiseled face, blond curly short hair, dark rim glasses and piercing blue eyes, 5’10”, fit, a Libra, not quite 8 years older than me, serious, often in a dark shirt or suit, soft spoken, mysterious, and loves me. Until he pretty much crushes me.

Every 22 year old should have story like that.

Because seriously how else do people end up on the couch?

When I tell my girlfriends that I used to date a spy, they think that I am joking.

But I did date a spy who did a lot of dirty work for the government.

The fact is not that he is a spy, but rather how I almost become his bride.

That little story I should probably wait to tell, when I have fully completed one year of couch session.

Suffice to say, since then, I am often drawn to certain type of men: blond, curly hair, wore glasses, dark suits with serious look and dark secrets, blue eyes.

This kind of makes me a bit of cliché.

We never really had in depth conversations, He and I. We simply had lots of sex, dark, unconventional sex, fun sex, and we did a lot of sporty activities together.  I never quite got to the point of getting to know him, he just repeatedly told me how much he enjoyed being with me, how he loved me and he was passionate about me when we met up.  I could feel it in my gut, it was an instinct, I felt that he cared for me and thought of me often when we were not together. He had given me nicknames, names no one knew or used ever again. Since we lived apart, each and every visit was quite memorable.

Then one day something terrible happened. We spent a year trying to reconcile everything to no avail.

Then one day, one day I decided it was time to move on.  I never saw him again.

Seventeen years later, part of me is still trying to move on, I realize that much.

None of us change. We are all imprinted with a pattern. We keep on searching for that one person who is our perfect match. We may get lucky once, or twice in our life time.

We can’t fight our primal desire. What we desire, in the most natural, inexplicable, and unaltered state, are the things we know that are core to our existence. We can bury it, substitute it, or even pretend that we can cut it out of our system, but at the end of the day, when all excuses fail, and you still desire that person without any rational explanation, then you know you have found your match.  It is therefore, difficult to get that out of your system.

Certain type of things in this world are meant to be, regardless of circumstances or obstacles.  And if we try we won’t be able to find a satisfying answer to explain away the unfathomable.  My therapist says that I have an unconventional life.  My duality is what fascinates her. She does not seem to understand how I can function in harmony. Harmony is an overstatement. I am always conflicted, sometimes fall into deep end. But I try to make do; we all try to make do.

I always know that I am different, ever since I am little I find what turns me on are quite different from the “norm”. My sexual preference has never been the garden variety.  I have met a person like that, until something terrible happened between us back in the early 90s.  

I may have met another person who is like me. Many years later. Circumstance is quite different this time, but obstacles are just as much if not more abundant.

I don’t know how to get out of it. I don’t want to. I don’t want to lose my match.

I just wait, wait for this story to end. I am marginally curious, how will this story end?

You tell me... 

Goodbye

When I say goodbye,
I no longer ask: "when might we see each other again?"
I don't need to know,
a future not meant to be known.

Shadows are permanent like the moonlight.
I see high and low tides.
Like my mood is tied to yours.

Speaking of the mood.
It is five again.
Not six, not four, not eight.

I never can be an eight.
Not when we still say goodbye.
The way we do.

The List - DRAFT (just like the list)

Prelude:

This fictional story was inspired by my visit to a fashion designer's shop. I had seen a piece of clothing that he designed, and then painted on, it was a lovely, beautiful jacket, with a sad, beautiful woman's face on it. It somehow reminded me that movie called "In the Mood for Love". I saw that movie years ago and it was by far the most memorable movie I watched - I remember thinking - "wow, unsatisfied desire, love story at it's finest." It was quite moody and I liked to write moody stories and that became a foundation of this story (two married people having an affair under a difficult circumstance just like the movie).

I thought some more and made sketches in my head about how to write a love story. I thought, hmmm.. would it be cool if two old lovers re-met and they started a relationship, and one was looking back reminiscing the old days and thought how much they shared in common, while the other (female) looking forward, and feeling tentative and conflicted about the lack of common things they shared. So I wrote a little story called The list, where the woman made list of things that they had in common, part of her felt that the list was short and part of her wished, despite her fatalistic view of her relationship with this man (because they are both in committed relationships with other people), that the list would grow, like their relationship, it was their unwritten story. This story had no perfect beginning or a real ending, just life itself.

“We have a lot in common”. He said in such a defensive tone.

She raised her eyebrows, surprised by his comments. She was a woman in her late 30s, she had longish dark brown highlighted hair, and almond shaped eyes. She was petite, pretty, with a curvy but toned body. She was a bit shy when pressed and appeared to be more reserved when she was around him. She wanted to tell him that she was not really trying to be snarly earlier on. She was simply stating a fact, the fact that they both liked watching porn and that was something that they had in common.

His response was unexpected. She dwelled on it for some time after she left him. She did not mean that that was the only thing that they had in common, and she really had not taken a stock on what they did have in common. Perhaps it was more than porn. Perhaps there were more, but at the time, she really just wanted to focus on the fact that they liked unconventional porn.

He had the perfect side profile, very Germanic. She knew that because she enjoyed looking at his profile when he was driving.  She took pictures of his side profile using her smartphone. She kept those pictures and looked at them occasionally when she was away from him. She liked to look at him when he was up and close to her, but not when he was walking away from her. When she observed his back as he walked away from her, he felt alone, lonely, proud, and a bit sad. She didn’t know why he left her with such impression, but she remembered distinctively that was how she felt fifteen years ago: April 1998, when she first met him. It felt melancholy, symbolic of their inevitable future, him walking away from her, that was irrational on her side, but she preferred to think that was the reason why she did not liked his back towards her. He had not changed that much since they met fifteen years ago. He’s approaching 47, there were quite a bit more wrinkles around his eyes. He no longer had really bleached blond hair, which she seemed to remember him as, but his facial features remained the same. She still liked looking at him. She still liked the way he kissed her, when she was barely awake. She was near sighted, and he was far sighted, so she could see the fine wrinkles around his eyes, when he turned himself over from his side of the bed, to kiss her. She wondered what he saw of her up and close, perhaps she was just a blurred vision of some woman he bedded.

She began to like staying over at his place. It felt utterly familiar. It was like her home away from home. She knew which drawer in his bathroom the small hair dryer was located, she knew which side of the bed she should take, which shower head she used, and she knew when he left his towel on the floor, what it meant, she also knew which tooth brush was hers, when she had forgotten her own. She knew which drawer he kept their toys.  She also noticed the walls were not as bare as she initially thought. There were framed photographs, photographs of women mostly, their feet, their calves, their legs, their skirts, but rarely their faces. It felt moody, very much like the way she felt about him. Whenever she was around him, it kind of reminded her the movie “In the Mood for Love,” an art house movie produced in Hong Kong, about two people tied together under rather rare circumstance, love unfulfilled. She liked to think that would be the way their story ended, one of those days.

These were the fine details and thoughts of a woman of her situation would have for her secret lover. Her boyfriend. They didn’t have a traditional relationship, they barely talked when they were apart from each other, but she thought of him often, and she believed in her heart, he did the same. Terminology was unimportant at this point, it was what it was. A few days later, she’d sit in front of writing desk and start to take a stock of what they truly had in common besides watching porn:

1.     Left-handedness
2.     Like to listen to NPR - both 91.7 and 88.5
3.     Fashion conscious
4.     A believer of Botox
5.     Travel
6.     Reading
7.     Outdoor activities
8.     Exercise
9.     Liberal
10.  Things German
11.  Unusual sexual fantasies for some others, natural for them

She stopped. That was all that she knew of him. That was not exactly a lot of things that they had in common, but perhaps he knew her more than she did of him? She made a mental note to ask him what he thought that they had in common the next time she would see him.

If there were a next time.

They took a break, intentionally or not, it was the kind of break they both needed. They never did see each other more than once or twice a month, but the break was four weeks long, for reasons that she couldn’t articulate or explore with him, they stopped seeing each other. She lost her cool and retreated to a place where she had to regroup, and came out of the other end with a new attitude, an attitude of “I don’t give a flying fuck if he sees me or not.” That was when things started to change. The things were changing in a way that she liked, she was becoming more in tune with his emotions. She knew that he needed time to recover, and she knew that she needed time to chill.

The fact of the matter was that she knew that the moment he introduced “love” into the picture, they both freaked out. That was the only explanation that made sense. Love had nothing to do with their arrangement. Love just got into the way. It should have only been just fucking. But people didn’t just behave like animals, they fucked and they also felt. That was the problem. The problem about fucking was that inevitably fucking would get caught up with feeling. Then there was always the definition. “What is he to me?” She had finally decided: to call a spade a spade. He was her boyfriend. Whatever the limited capacity boyfriend he was, he was nonetheless her boyfriend. She wanted to call him “Boyfriend LLC.” Emphasis on LLC.

Folks, here was the tale that you’ve been waiting for.

Once upon a time, there was a young girl, and a youngish boy. They met at a group outing, through some mutual friends. He asked her out, she was a crazy girl who loved sex and provocation. He liked that about her. They dated. They drifted apart. They stayed in touch, she got married, he stayed unmarried. Throughout the years, they were friends, sort of kept in touch, stayed marginally friendly in a rather non-sexual way. 

Fifteen years later, when he turned 46, she sent him an email. A happy birthday email with a hint of "shall we get together for lunch?"

He responded right away. Danced around the timing about meet up, until a month passed and she asked him again. They met up, and by second date, they were back in the sack again, and time, time passed by them and it had been roughly 8 months since they started this. Whatever happened to time, neither one of them knew. They spent more time apart than being together, they never managed to spend one single weekend together, and each of their encounters were unique, memorable and brief, and therefore, devastatingly beautiful.

Then one day out of blue this man told her that he loved her, and to her surprise, she said “I love you” back. It became this unspoken incident. A foul play.  “Love” was not a word to be tossed about without consequence. The consequence, in their case, was that he disappeared, did not respond to her emails for a week, and then cancelled on their dates one after another, and she retreated, gotten sad, depressed, and reset. Both needed to time to reset, to reset back to the beginning, when they first started.

He took her out on their first proper date recently. Dinner, show and then asked her to stay over at his place.

Like the first time they went out fifteen years ago, she wore no underwear, this time, under his direction.  On their way back, he figured her, she was aroused, screaming for him to stop. He drove with one hand on the wheel, let her scream until she collapsed.

In his place, he took her hands, and led her onto his bed, she was lying on her back while he took off his belt, his pants and took out his penis, he stuffed it in her mouth. She sucked on it until he was hard, and then he entered her. Just like that, they made up.

She wanted him to last. He told her then he’d go to bed without coming.

Early in the morning, they woke up together, she went down on him until he was ready, and then he fucked her. Telling her how much he loved fucking her, just like when they first started seeing each other. He fucked her, she asked him to fuck her from behind, and he did, and he came. They took an early morning nap together, for a little while before having to get ready to go to work. He told her again that they made a good couple. She believed him. She couldn’t find a better lover. One understood her. She liked to be fucked from behind. She liked him muffling her, covering her mouth with his hand forcefully.  she wanted to scream, no voice would come out, she could barely breath, she was feeling suffocated. His strong hand covering her mouth and she couldn’t break free. It felt like rape. The way she enjoyed it. She told him so afterwards, even though at the time, she thought that she might faint from lack of air. He acknowledged it, and simply said softly, “I know, baby.” He knew her deepest, darkest secrets, desires and he knew how to satisfy them. He liked them too.

No one used the word “love” again.

But she knew that she loved him still. She could tell that he loved her, in his own way as well. 

“Maybe that was why he thought that was what we had in common.” She later thought to herself. “Maybe the mere fact that he knew how much they felt for each other but they were unable to explain to each other, was something in common.”

She added it to the list.

12. Unable to explain to each other how they really feel for each other or to what extent.

In the evening, just before she fell asleep, she asked him, “Did you miss me?” He said, “Yes I did. And sometimes it’s just not physically possible. We are not in the same physical location.” She knew what he meant. She knew that he was being truthful. She was satisfied with her inquisition.

“I don’t have sex with anyone else.” She thought to make that declaration. “Me either.” He responded.

She didn’t believe him. But then again, if she told anyone that she’s not having sex with her husband, and only with her boyfriend LLC, no one would believe her either. But she did not, does not, probably would not, in the future, unless he left her, for good.

She decided to add that to the list as well.

13. Does not have sex with other people but each other.

“We were together a long time ago, and I’m glad that we are back together again.” Earlier that evening, he told her that, he was referring to when they first dated, in 1998. She thought that was a strange way of looking at things, yet, not surprised. In that purely physical way, they were indeed back together.  In her imaginary world, she always only half believed him. In her mind, she was convinced that he had a girlfriend, whom he lived with, and he kept his apartment as their love shack. It was always seemed not touched, as if the only time he was there, was when she was there with him. One time she saw him at his place and she found a lost piece of pearl in bed, and it was hers. That time, she had not seen him for weeks also. She wanted to ask him that the next time she saw him. She wanted to believe that his place was his and hers, the love shack that they would return to, whenever they were hungry for each other. It would be fair. She wanted to believe that he too was in a committed relationship. So that they were on equal ground. She added that to the list.

14. Both in other committed relationships (Confirm and verify with Boyfriend LLC)

She thought about the way they interacted. He very rarely talked. Initially she thought that he was shy, and then she realized it was how the dynamics between the two of them played out. Over time, she realized that she feared him. It was not rational, but part of that could be a result of their BDSM style relationship. She feared losing him. She feared how he would disappear, and she feared her emotional attachment was too intense. She wanted to be “out of sight out of mind”. She wanted him to leave her, break it off with her, so that she didn’t have to feel that intense longing of him.

She suspected that he had been able to operate differently. He felt secure, and in control of their arrangement. She was never in control and somehow she liked it.

15. In a mutually beneficial BDSM relationship

She wrote item # 15 down.

Then she put her pen down. She decided to review the list and make amendments as time went on. Like writing a piece of short fiction, it required editing and rewriting. She decided that this list would grow. She’d like to see it grow.

The story had not been fully written; she thought for a while and decided that was the only truth she knew. That, and how much they still desired each other.

Make that #16.

16. Still desire each other the same way as they first reconnected 8 months ago.

Heart Matters

Late at night when all is quiet, when I stop running, from somewhere, to somewhere, or simply going for a run, I listen to my heart. It is still breaking.

It has a rather unique sound, a sound that seems like a wind chime, blown by the wind in a forest, the sound is drown out by the leaves of the trees, trembling under the gust of the wind.  When the heart breaks, it sounds a bit like a whimper or rather simple musical instrument accidentally played by a child: out of tone, out of rhythm, sporadic at best, but in a strange and comforting way, it is the only familiar sound I ever know.

I try to decipher it, and I try to think of ways to ignore the sound. I even imagine with the right ingredients, it will eventually start fading out, and in the end, dead silence. I try my best to not lose my cool.

But it’s the middle of the night. I have no one to answer but myself.

I realize at some point, no matter how brave I may be towards the world, I am still frightened, injured and broken.

And for some rather unexplainable reason, I can’t confront or explain it to that person.

There is an invisible force that inevitably pulls him towards me, and I him.

I can still feel his tight grip on my hand; as if I’d disappear if he just let go of my hand. I wonder if I choose to disappear, how hard it will be for him to find me. Will he even try? I don’t have an answer. I don't want to speculate. I fear the answer.

Clinically speaking, when I examine this relationship we have formed, I feel rather fatalistic about it. The very core of it is the dynamics: one dominating, one submissive. The submissive person’s very own job is to please the dominating person.  The dominating person derives pleasure from controlling the submissive person. In that dynamics, the toxicity is seeped into both sides. So the two people continue to orbit one another, until one either grows tired of it or reaches a breaking point.

Mine is the later. I, therefore, suffer from heartbreak. But I don’t know what can be done differently. 

So... I listen to it, late at night, listen to to the sound of heart breaking.

Shall We Dance

There used to be a girl, who lived on Broadway and 6th, in a two bedroom walk up that was common in New York. She was married, and had a beautiful son who was 3. Her husband worked on the Wall Street, a currency trader. She was 38 and had wavy brown hair, brown eyes, petite figure and a lovely face. Men couldn't stop smiling at her, and they constantly wanted to do things for her because she had that fragility that made them wanted to take care of her. When she smiled she looked like a child. She was a singer when she was young, before she met her husband. She stayed at home, raised her boy and now her boy was in day care so she had more free time.

She wanted to learn to dance, like a professional. She asked her husband if that was acceptable, to learn to dance at night, when he was home and when she supposed to be spending time with him.

He said, “Honey, do what you want. I can handle junior.” She jumped up and down like a kid, she was finally able to do something for herself, on her own.

The first night she went to the dance studio down the street, she was assigned a dance partner.

The dance partner was slightly older, by about 7 years, he had intense blue eyes, sun kissed hair and he said his name was Christopher. He did not wear a wedding ring. He had a fit body and a slight Midwesterner accent. He said that he owned an architectural firm in midtown and he was new to the area. He was slim and subdued. He wore those architect glasses with dark rim. He had thin lips and a tight grip. He said that he had danced tango years ago, when he was in Minnesota, in his 30s. He said that he liked to dance but was never a good dancer.

They danced. He led, she followed. The night went on. They were becoming the best dance couple in the class.

She began to wonder what he did outside of their dance classes. She began to imagine what it was like to be seen with him, in a café, in central park, holding hands, in day light, comb through his sun kissed hair, talk about life, talk about something other than the dance moves, how they tangoed.

She asked him if he was open to something like that, perhaps during the day, perhaps over lunch.

He said, “Of course. You are a beautiful dancer. I love dancing with you, I love to see you outside of the dance studio, during the day, a proper date?”

She smiled shyly. She had never pretended that she was single. She wore her diamond wedding ring to dance, he never asked her about her husband or her child, nor did he question as to why why she asked him out either.

It was a lovely day. They met at the Central Park. Like two lovers she looped her arm around his, he was a gentleman, refined, proper, spoke softly, held his arm out for her to hold onto him. She wore large hat and big sunglasses. She was feeling slightly guilty but not so much so that she would not want to be seen out with him.

The bought hot dogs at the hot dog stand, went to the fountain and sat on the bench and had ice cream cones afterwards. He kissed her, first lightly, like a peck, light as feather, and then more urgently.  He said that she was beautiful, the most beautiful dancer he’s ever danced with, and he loved how they were so in sync. At one point, a little boy ran past them as his nanny chased after him pushing the red Bugaboo stroller. He looked at the boy and then to her and said “We'd make a perfect couple. We’d make beautiful babies, you and I.” In the end he said that he had to get back to work but what a lovely date this was.

Like a schoolgirl she was giddy with joy. She didn’t know what came over her, she realized that perhaps this was really the reason she wanted to learn to dance, to meet him: this mysterious man who was gentle, kind, and liked her genuinely. She felt desired again.

They met up from then on, always in the dance studio. Occasionally they grabbed coffee afterwards. He told her bits and pieces about him, but not too much that she knew anything substantial about him. He said that his firm had projects abroad, he traveled frequently to the middle east. He had never quite found the woman he would settle down with, and he had been so busy with his work that he rarely dated. He told her how pretty she looked under the dim lights, how wonderful it was to dance with her, and how he liked seeing her and how he looked forward to seeing her each time. She asked him to invite her out again, during the daytime, so that she could see his hair, shining under the sun; so that she could loop her arm around his, walking through the park. He said that he’d love to do that, but work beckoned, and there was never another opportunity for him to get out of the office. But what a lovely suggestion, he would love to see her again, outside of the dance studio.

She waited for that next date, a proper one but it didn’t come. Gradually he stopped showing up in the studio as well. It started with a text, he said that he was running late, because he had a client engagement, the next time he said that he had to fly out of town. Each time a new excuse or the same old ones appeared. At first he told her why, and then he just said “I can’t make it.” Finally one day the text stopped. He just did not show or tell her whether he’d show or not. She sat there, waited for her phone to blink but it was dead silent. She texted him, and she did not hear from him either.

Weeks passed. Then it became months.

One day, it was a warm sunny day in Central Park, she was walking and holding her son’s hand. She saw him again. He had his arm out, a beautiful blond woman by his side, her arm looped in his. He was animated, and laughing. She then saw him holding a small hand, a little boy, about her son’s age. There was something else. It was a wedding band.

She walked briskly pass this happy couple. Did not stop, did not say hi. He did not see her, she was convinced.

That evening she cried. She never knew anything about him. She realized, yet, in her head, he was the man who would come and rescue her from mundane. She realized that he was only her dance partner, nothing more or less. She didn’t realize that somewhere along the line, she had developed feeling for him, complicated, emotional feelings that resembled a schoolgirl’s crush, or perhaps love.

When she woke up the next day, she was surprisingly calm and reflective.

She only wanted to dance with him. They formed such a wonderful rhythm, on the dance floor, they were one. She didn’t care if he was married, seeing other people, or where he was from, what he did for a living. She didn’t know nor care to know. She only wanted a good dance partner. He was a great dance partner, perfect in fact.

But then somehow both of them got emotionally tangled up. Seeing her became a chore. He began to feel obligated to tell her lies, lies about his whereabouts, and why he couldn’t make it to the dance studio. He might have, could have, just told her that he too was married, and had other women and life besides spending time with her in the dance studio, but perhaps he was worried about hurting her.

She wanted to believe that she was the only one to him as well. Even though she was married and had a life outside of their dance world. She didn’t want him to know that she had other priorities in life, she wanted him to believe that he was all that mattered.

In that process, he became all that mattered to her.

Sometimes in life, the only thing we need from a perfect stranger, is that really fabulous dance. No one wants to dance alone, Not she, not he.

She wished that when he said “Shall we dance?” that very first time, she had said, “We shall, and let’s just dance.”

Maybe Someday

Maybe someday I will write a story.
Maybe someday I will explain.
Maybe someday I will ask you.
Why did we end this way?

Maybe tomorrow is the day.
Maybe tomorrow you reappear.
Maybe tomorrow you will say,
Everything is still a-okay.

Maybe someday.
But definitely won't be today.
Maybe someday.