Hi friends,
It’s Friday night. 10:04 pm to be exact. And I am back on my Friday night glow routine. I just finished my weekly glycolic peel. My teeth whitening strips are on. I took my passionflower drops because my anxious mind has had a mind of its own lately. I boiled water for a chamomile tea. I have clean linen sheets that are sitting on top of my bed, waiting to be folded. My nails have been shortened, meaning I won’t accidentally stab myself in the eyeball when I go to take out my contacts. And, I just want to talk to you.
We left off last Sunday with the Man From The Bar kissing me in front of my apartment. Which was so endearing, so innocent, so simple, and so sweet.
But, we are all human beings. And our emotions and thoughts and perceived outside pressure can have a way of steering things in a completely different direction.
-
A few days after that apartment kiss, the MFB invites me, my friend, and her boyfriend over for drinks. My friend tells me that we need to hang out with each other one-on-one, and I roll my eyes and throw a minor hissy fit.
“We’ll walk you over. But that’s it.”
The elevator doors open and there stands the MFB. In a backwards baseball cap and YSL cologne. Which, to give men credit - is a deadly combination.
“You should have told me it was just going to be you. I would have ordered you an Uber.”
“I tried to convince them. Believe me. Anyways, it’s like, a 7 minute walk. Don’t worry about it.”
We get up to his apartment. He takes my fur. I’m in one those chocolate brown body contour bodysuits from Aritzia, and a pair of my baggiest vintage Levi’s. I love the way they sit below my hips.
I hate that I like his condo building. I hate that I like his condo unit. The view is beautiful. His apartment is spacious. The kitchen is clean. It smells good, it’s airy and open. It’s furnished with elevated boy furniture. There’s a bottle of Bread and Butter on the counter.
“Ugh. My favourite wine.”
“Would you say it’s your bread and butter?”
I roll my eyes. “Jesus Christ.” The banter with MFB is surprisingly good. It’s not OFM-level. But it’s definitely there, and definitely more present than it is with other men.
He pours me a glass of red, and pours himself a glass of whiskey.
I seat myself in the corner of his couch. He sits on the other side, and we start talking. About all of it. Addiction, recovery, stigmas. How we were raised. Growing up. Grief. Tattoos. I shouldn’t be surprised at how easy this is. I forget that I’m a regular at his bar, annoying him with questions at least once a week.
The conversation gets lighter.
“So. Do you play any sports?”
I burst out laughing. “Does it look like I am someone who plays sports?”
He starts to laugh, too. “I don’t know. Didn’t you play anything growing up?”
I give him the blankest stare I can.
“Ok, ok.” He’s still laughing. “It’s like I forgot how to talk to girls for a second. Ok. Music. All-time favourite band?”
“The Killers.” It’s an immediate answer. “Hot Fuss and Sam’s Town. They’re…everything.”
Nostalgia. The OC. Poetry. The lyrics to A Dustland Fairytale.
“Wow.” He smiles. “Good answer. Have you ever seen them live?”
“Never. I’m dying to.”
He starts telling me how he saw Brandon Flowers perform at Wayhome. There was more to the story about his friends leaving him (I think) but my memory is hazy.
“So we found common ground.” He rests his hand on my knee. “Music.”
“Thank god. I was getting worried.”
“Do you smoke?”
I nod. “Sometimes.”
We go out to his balcony. He lights my cigarette. I forgot how much I loved the feeling of 2 glasses of red and the smell of cigarette smoke. The view isn’t Rome. But it’s still something.
“When did you move to the city again?”
“2017.”
“That’s a long time.”
He nods. “A very long time.”
“And how long have you lived in this apartment?”
“I moved in here after I broke up with my ex. So it’s been about…a year and a few months?”
My back immediately stiffens and I don’t know why.
He starts to laugh. “Sorry. Was that too exact of a timeframe?”
“I mean.” I smile. “A little.”
I still remember the last day I saw OFM. January 12th. But who’s counting?
“How’d it go with your boyfriend?” The MFB is texting me, a few weeks back. I let it slip that I was texting an ex at the bar. And his face was - well, not the happiest.
“You mean my ex boyfriend.”
“Ah. There’s my answer.”
We put out our cigarettes and go back inside.
“Do you want a pair of sweats?”
“I’d love that.” It’s been…I was going to say ages since I wore a man’s clothes. But I realized I wore OFM’s navy Under Armour tee to bed that January 12th night, so it hasn’t been too long.
He brings me a pair of grey sweats and an old tee. It looks vintage and I’m immediately planning my walk of shame outfit. Fur, vintage tee, vintage Levi’s. I’m so tempted to ask him if I can keep it. But I do not. Instead, I change, tell him his sweatpants are really comfortable, and sit back down beside him on the couch and grab a blanket.
I’ve known this man for a total of 6 months. I know a lot about him. And I wonder what he knows, or what he remembers about me. I wonder how he feels about me. I wonder what he thinks of me in his clothes.
It’s been about 3 hours, and he hasn’t tried to kiss me yet. I write this on Close Friends.
He puts on Netflix. “Movie?”
“Yes.”
“Give me a genre.”
“Oh god. I’m the worst at this. Anything.”
And, in classic boy fashion - Wolf of Wall Street it is.
In a matter of moments, I end up with my head on his chest. We’re lying together, with his arm around me. It’s the most unfamiliar, yet familiar feeling. Lying together and watching a movie. Letting someone hold you.
I wonder if he does this a lot, if he does this often, or if I am special.
I wonder if I am different.
The thoughts are swirling around in my head. The fears, my anxieties are speaking to me.
Am I body? A number? What are his intentions? Does he like me? Do I like him? Or do I just want to feel chosen? This is pretty romantic for a second date, a second hang-out? No? Is this is a date? What do I want? What does he want?
I look up at him. I can’t decide on anything else in this moment, except how I like the way he looks at me, right before he kisses me. It’s the only time I can read him. It’s as if he waits for me to give him permission, a silent ok. And then it just happens. And when he kisses me, it’s like the first time all over again. He lingers there. It’s not a kiss that expects anything more, or a kiss that he immediately wants to have lead into something else. It’s just his lips against mine.
Maybe, he’s trying to figure it all out, too.
To be continued.
yes MFB💜