He'd changed a lot. His hair was longer, and he'd put on some weight, but his eyes were every bit as piercing as they had been back then.
He had a mustache now, too, and I wondered how that would feel when he kissed me, soft and downy or scratchy like sandpaper, and once I started wondering I couldn't stop thinking about it. I wanted to grab his face between my palms, draw his lips down to mine to find out.
And the little good girl inside me whispered not to, but the bad girl beat her down into submission, and so that's just what I did, reaching up on my toes and tugging his face down hard to meet mine.
His mustache was soft, and it tickled, and just the thought of that downy softness brushing against my thighs instead made me wet.
And when I finally drew back--I had to, I needed to take a breath, draw some air into my lungs at last--the crooked grin on his face just melted me inside all over again.
"Well, hello..." he said, and we both kinda grinned, and looked down at the ground and peeked back up at each other again and damn near shuffled our feet in embarrassment, it was that kind of aw, shucks moment.
And then he just held out his hand, and I took it, and we walked for a while.
I love the night. I love the intimacy of the dark, the way even the most familiar sites change and become this strange new world under the stars.
It's like in Les Mis, when Eponine sings:
In the rain, the pavement shines like silver
All the lights
Are misty in the river
In the darkness
The trees are full of starlight...
Yeah, I know, I have it bad, don't I?
We walked a long time, just talking and catching up. I won't say it was like we had never parted, because we had our share of awkward pauses and moments of silence where each of us struggled to find something to say. But I really think most of that was just because we were so *aware* of each other, the whole time.
My fingers, curled up in his big hand, made me feel all tiny and protected, in this ultra-girly way that was just completely unlike me.
We were just holding hands as we walked, and every once in a while we would stop, and look at each other, and he would kiss me, gently, not like that first time, and then we would walk a little more.
I know, I really BELIEVE, that anticipation is part of the fun, and sometimes I kick myself for letting things go too far too fast, not enjoying that build-up, you know? But that night, I just didn't want to waste any more time.
I felt like I would explode if something didn't happen.
I took him by my old school--not my high school, but the elementary school where I played on the jungle gym like a tomboy--and we sat on an old picnic table while I reminisced.
And finally, I ran out of things to say, and I just looked at him, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing.
The planks were still damp from the evening rain, and sticky, and my dress clung to the back of my thighs, and the wood table underneath me was hard and uncomfortable when he drew me down across it. I could feel the knots in the wood underneath me, and the slats between the planks, and the table cut into my shoulders when I wrapped my thighs around him. The crickets were loud and the air was thick and the mosquitoes feasted on my ankles but it was worth it, every second was worth it all.
I would do it over again, I really would.
But today, saying good-bye over the phone? That sucked.
I wanted him to say he would be back soon, or that I should visit him next weekend, or that he had never known a woman like me before ever in his life and I had changed his world forever. Or something like that.
Instead he told me about the girl he'd been seeing, and how she was really nice but they had had some problems, and that now they were trying to work them out, and that he didn't know if they would make it in the long run but that he had to give it a shot.
He wasn't mean, or deliberately callous. We hadn't made any promises, after all, and we live, like a gazillion miles apart. To be honest, too, we had talked about her a little before...well, you know, before.
So I knew what I was getting into.
And I'm still not sorry. I'm just a little sad, and a little lonely, and feeling a little vulnerable right now.
Which is why, if you know anything AT ALL about how my luck seems to go after reading this blog for a while, you won't be a bit surprised when I tell you that I fired up my email and there was a new message in the inbox.
Yep, you guessed it this time.
It was from J.
I swear, I am living a soap opera these days.
You always knew they were creepy and scary and completely unfunny. But now, it turns out that one of those white-faced weirdos that gave you nightmares as a kid is facing charges for child pornography, too.
