September 17th, 2011
A funny thing happened yesterday. As I sipped my usual iced coffee — two packets of Sugar in the Raw and two servings of Moo Moo half and half make it so delicious — same as every other day, I caught a different flavor (maybe the creamer was going bad?). Something about it reminded me of the coffees I had during a long weekend in Montreal. (I was there to spend time with a someone who worked there in the winter of ‘07.)
I smiled, cringed — same as every time I think of him — and wished things would change. If he finally give me the apology I wanted — he sent a ten sentence long email, I wanted a one minute long phone call — a small sign of respect and an equally small hoop considering his bad behavior — I could see him again. Lunch. Dinner. Coffee. A walk through a park. A quick call on Skype once a year. I hear he still talks about me (in a good way, though I dare not ask for details.) That must mean he still likes me, just a little. (That’ll change if he ever reads this post!) How lovely.
We could be friends. Real friends. Not the “friend” he wanted me to be; entertainment for the free moments he wouldn’t be in endless business meetings, visiting his family, who’ll never know I exist, spending time with the woman he actually loves. He must have loved her all along. Clearly, he did at the end of our relationship. He didn’t admitted it in his “apology” email. Instead, he explained why he didn’t mention her during our time together in Montreal: their relationship seemed precarious, so why share something that may not work out.
This separation still saddens me — just a little — as I walked away from someone I truly loved. (He was the first person to touch my heart after my separation from my ex-husband, Endicott.) He is wonderful…to everyone but me. I took another sip and snapped out of it…
…until this afternoon.
Driving east on the 10 fwy, just a hair past the 405, I swear I spotted him slowing down traffic in the number four lane. Most everyone passed him by. Not me. I matched his pace in order to scan his profile (for all of three seconds), then, the front of his car from my rear view mirror. It couldn’t have been him. Right? Right.
Wrong. I decided it was him — this man was long and lean, drove with one hand, biting the nails of the other; he looked just as I remember him — just as I described him here in 2005 — as I really wanted to see him again. Doppelganger? The real deal? Doesn’t matter. I longed to see him and he “appeared”.
It was nice seeing you, friend.