Wednesday, February 29, 2012
I told him I liked how he smelled. He said it was called The Dreamer and then he laughed–embarrassed to be caught wearing a scent with such an insipid name–and then went on to tell me that he didn’t travel with it, since he didn’t have a travel size. I loved the name; it was the first close thing he shared with me to date. I liked him so much, yet knew so little. We were in bed, I don’t recall if it was morning or night or if it was our first time sleeping together or our third. He was an architect. Is one. Or rather now a teacher of architects. Future architects. A careful, methodical man, he doled his time out to me in the barest of measurements–one evening, never more than one, even if he was in town for longer–never giving me more than a centimeter of his time. I’d spend the week prior to his arrival relishing the knowing of what was to come, my mind preoccupied with thoughts of him, becoming forgetful of anything else I might need to do that week. That temporary place in between, of knowing I would see him and of seeing him, was a drug I couldn’t get enough of. Then, for every minute we were together, I would hope for that minute to be replaced with another minute, our time together never clocking out. I’d try not to hope for more–more time, more conversation, more him–but when I did I was disappointed. Or maybe I wasn’t disappointed. In the morning, after one last draw in of his skin, he’d lean down and kiss me goodbye, maybe I was in bed, maybe he was just towering over me in the hall, he’d say goodbye with no mention of the next time. The hardest part was when he was still in my city–knowing he was out there on my streets but not with me, how could he be on my streets and not be with me? I’d walk my city, seven by seven miles, following strangers, anyone over six feet, anyone with silver hair, a confidant stride. Only when they turned and I saw their eyes would I know it wasn’t him. I never saw him unless he planned it. I couldn’t control him or the progression of our relationship–an incredibly compelling feeling–not to be in control; even when it was so painful.