At this moment, I’m wearing an authentic Moroccan robe with authentic Moroccan slippers, and I’m doing that thing that heartbroken lovers do when they make the wrong decision at the right time, or the right decision at the wrong time, or the right decision all around but they just cannot see it yet, so they cough it up with vigor and passion so that everyone knows their confusion/heartbreak/self-inflicted pain.
Last night, he brought me the robe, and the day before, the slippers. The robe he’s had for years, kept unworn because of its handcrafted beauty – the slippers were a present from his parents for Ramadan. He’s amazing with the gifts. Little beautiful things at little unexpected moments. Little everythings I’ve missed for the past few years, or for the past few lives, depending on the mood I’m in and the position of the sun.
A month ago, because I was going out of town and he worried about me, he took my car in to have all of the fluids checked and changed, and the entire car point-inspected to make sure it was safe. A small thing, really, in retrospect, but this was after two weeks of seeing each other.
It’s the feeling of being taken care of that I’ve missed so much. His hand on my back, firm and supportive, when we dance. The way he’ll look at me across a table full of engaging people and all I can see are his dimples and his maddeningly seductive eyes.
And I do hate to come into this in the middle of a story, because I know I’ve written absolutely nothing about how it started, happened or is what it is now. But last night, I put my foot down into the neat little pile this relationship was, and in this second, with Dunkel and Viognier clouding my judgment, I’m thick with regret. Why I ended it, or pretended to for the moment, seems so pointless.
When it started, it was only supposed to be easy and fun. Those were my stipulations. Fuck me for forgetting that a man with Moroccan blood, born and raised in France wouldn’t have the capability of leaving things light and stringless. And, god almighty, you really should hear his accent. Tres bien et jolie and whatnot.
I wish I I’d been writing more, writing more poetically, and I would indelicately paint the picture of what it’s been with him, especially like what it’s been with him at night. I’ve never known a man comparative to him – a man so attentive to details. You know, raised an American next to American men, I’m adjusted to the finer arts of a non-romantic, pervert-driven jaunt through the bed. An immediate give and take, each getting their own through their own. A blowjob here, a handcuff there. Getting used to almost an hour of attention spent solely on kissing your back isn’t an easy feat. (Okay, so it’s really not that hard, but it still seems just a little uncomfortable.) Spending so much time not focusing on what you’re contributing is a constant battle between experiencing pleasure and babysitting a reciprocative-oriented mind.
My point being here is – I think that there’s a very good chance here that I’m in love. I ran away from it last night, due to what I knew would be my now inability to trust and my fear of intimacy.
Last night, he said he loved me. Ten minutes later, I said we needed to call it a wrap.
And now, tonight, I am wearing the robe and slippers he gave me and wondering why it is that I’ve suddenly become so afraid of emotions.
And I also wonder why it’s so much easier to write here when everything is angst ridden. I hate myself right now for not writing when I was full of happiness and everything good.
But, god, do I feel in the zone. One cigarette and one glass of wine later, and there will be another entry. It’s only midnight, and I took a two-hour nap today. Pray for the phone to ring or a knock on the door, and then I will shut up.
Anyway, really, all anyone wants is the one who’ll override the frightened, I’m-only-pretending-to-be-the-cool-headed-and-responsible-one-in-this-relationship pose and show up at the doorstep at midnight with pizza and a bottle of champagne. Although I’m not holding my breath. I’m too old and worn for that now. I’d be happy with fries and a lemonade at this point.
But I do have a Moroccan robe. And a French accent in my head. But the phone hasn’t rang yet.
Does anyone know how to say “Would you fucking see through my bullshit and just call me” in French?
Merci beaucoup.