It was not a dream. It was Thursday…and I was at his lair, sinking alongside him into the cushions. Our feet rested on the coffee table, our shoulders were pressed together, our heads turned profile. We were thisclose to a butterfly kiss. I drank him in with my eyes, instantly intoxicated. Damn, he was hot. How did I make it this long without him?
I suppose you want to know how I went from angrily ignoring my ex’s texts to cozying up to him in the span of a week.
It had started a few hours earlier when I received a picture text post-yoga. The pic was one that Slump Buster had taken of me on the too-many-clothes date mentioned in my last post.
Beneath my giggling mug, Slump Buster had added the caption: Are you this happy today?
One of our trademark witty exchanges ensued, during which I dropped several “ask me out already” hints. When Slump Buster didn’t take the bait, I let the conversation lapse. I sat down and dug into my homemade salad in the gym lobby, which was nearly empty (save for that insanely buff personal trainer who was unloading his own cooler two tables away. Yummy.).
When I had just about finished my dinner, my phone vibrated.
SB: There are moments when I miss your passion.
That, my readers, is what I call a crumb. Slump Buster has probably never used the words “I miss” in any context with me. It was something, but not enough.
ME: I’ll bet there are. But it’s not like I’m hoarding it. Plenty to go around…
SB: Let me know if you’re willing to share.
ME: I seem to recall an invitation last week…If you want passion, propose some time when you can stay up late.
Slump Buster half-assedly attempted to schedule a reunion, but I could tell he was up to his old ambivalent tricks again.
ME: Let’s not fuck around. What do you want from me, babe? ‘Cause I can’t pretend that I can have a casual thing with you and your schedule doesn’t seem compatible with anything else. Enough B.S. Just be real with me.
SB: My schedule does make everything damn difficult. I just wanted to see if you were doing well. Then I remembered that we’ve always had that energy between us.
ME: Eventually, you will have to reprioritize your life or you’re going to end up very lonely. You’re denying yourself a lot more satisfaction and happiness than your career will ever give you.
SB: Food for thought, I suppose.
GRR! What was it with this man and the “I only want it if I can’t get it” mentality?
ME: No, that’s your mistake. Too much thinking and no changing.
I didn't mean to crack the whip; I wasn't pissed, I was sad. This felt like a now or never moment.
ME: I’m just going to go ahead and say this because life is too short. I was really falling in love with you. But it seems like you won’t let yourself be loved.
Cue loooooooooong silence, during which I assumed I’d scared the shit out of Slump Buster, given him a heart attack, or both. I packed up my stuff and headed out to my car because I was planning on catching the Trampled by Turtles concert at the state fair. About a block into my drive, our conversation continued. Sort of.
SB: I’m at a loss for words.
ME: I don’t mean to be a bitch. I just want to challenge you because I know what a good man you are. But you’re also putting up barriers that don’t need to be there. You’re protecting yourself from the wrong people.
Silence again. I figured Slump Buster was wimping out on me (and who could blame him considering how hard I was pummeling him with one-sided reality checks?). But I had more pressing problems. Texting while driving can really slow a girl down. I still hadn’t reached the fairgrounds at the start time of the concert.
SB: Where are you?
I suddenly felt like I’d been dropped into a chick flick at the climatic moment where the tortured lovers realize they can’t live without one another and go speeding off to their rendezvous point. Melodramtic, I know, but that’s how my brain works. Especially when Slump Buster is involved.
ME: Trying retardedly to park at the fair for a concert that already started.
I pulled into the first lot I saw, but before handing over my $11, I asked the attendant how far away I was from the stage.
“Six blocks,” he said. Even if I hustled (which would be impossible in the shitty sandals I was wearing), I wouldn’t hear more than a song or two before the show was over.
My heart wanted to believe that this was a sign to scrap my Trampled by Turtles plans and make like bunnies with Slump Buster instead. My brain thought that this was just the result of me being ten minutes late again. (Have I said "People don't change?")
The parking attendant awaited my decision. He was about 16 years old with sloppy hair sticking out beneath a crooked hat. He had a dumb, innocent smile on his face and a very cute chick in cut-off shorts anxious to flirt with him in his booth.
“I want to go back,” I said.
So I did. Right back to Slump Buster’s.
Before you accuse me of being a stalker, I didn’t just show up at his house. (And even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t have. I realized en route that I’d forgotten his address.)
ME: My tardiness bites me in the ass again. Wanna go get some chocolate cake with me? Or is there nothing left to talk about?
SB: I’m sitting on the porch taking in the weather. And thinking, of course.
When I pulled up to his pad, Slump Buster was seated outside on a plastic chair with his legs propped up on the railing.
“It’s fall,” he said.
BAM. (That would be the sound of my heart slamming up against my chest.) BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM. BAM fucking BAM.
And just like that, I was back under his spell.
“I’ve gotta warn you,” I said. “I haven’t been home all day, so I’m not primped like I usually am.”
“What? Are there levels, like homeland security? Today the threat level is orange…”
“Well, yeah,” I said. “There kind of are.”
At that moment, my threat level, as far as hotness goes, was low. I’d barely rinsed off after yoga, I’d forgotten my earrings, my Capri jeans were one day dirty, I was wearing a bra I’d be embarrassed to be seen in, my makeup was “meh” and one of my toenails was missing its cherry colored lacquer.
Showing up “as is” on Slump Buster’s doorstep was a big step for me. My long-time readers might remember that prior to my first date with Slump Buster, I spent several hours primping to make a good impression.
Now, I thanked my lucky stars that it was dark, ‘cause the only things I had going for me in the sexxxy department were shaved legs, major cleavage, and…hmm…my “lucky fuck” thong. (How did that happen?)
Slump Buster and I rehashed our usual conversation topics; namely, the good, the bad, and the blog. Slump Buster patted himself on the back for taking my cyberspace stabs-in-the-back like a man.
“These other guys that can’t face the truth,” he said with a head shake, “Don’t they know that adults say hurtful things sometimes? That’s life. It doesn’t mean we don’t still care about each other.”
I squeezed his calf through his jeans. I would’ve reached for another body part, but I didn’t want to be presumptious.
“So what’s going on with you that you decided to text me when you did?” I asked.
“Because I wanted to know that you’re okay.”
I raised my eyebrows skeptically.
“No matter how break-ups happen, they’re always hard,” Slump Buster said. “It was my opportunity to offer you an olive branch.”
I put my hand over my heart. Now I was at a loss for words. To think that three months ago I would have body-slammed this man if I’d seen him on the street...
“And…since you brought it up…what is this ‘love’ stuff?” he asked. “I know that I have some attractive qualities, but…why would those things make you love me?”
“Why wouldn’t I love you?” I said.
Slump Buster sighed…and tried to shift the conversation from personal to universal.
“What is it about women? They have one orgasm and everything changes.”
I shrugged. What could I say? We’re hard-wired that way. When it, ahem, cums down to it, I am as much of a slave to my X chromosomes as the next chick.
“Why do they always claim they can handle a no-strings attached set-up?”
“Because they want to believe that,” I said. “But it’s bullshit.”
“Apparently. As soon as they come, the tough girl act goes right out the window. They just attach.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. They just want to be with you.”
Slump Buster shuddered.
“If you don’t like it, why do you keep putting yourself in those situations?” I asked.
“I don’t intend to get into these things,” he said. “And I think that’s why I always get the girl. Because I never expect anything to happen.”
Slump Buster’s neighbor came home then and shouted out a greeting from the adjacent porch.
“How’s it going?” Slump Buster asked.
“I got my ass kicked,” the neighbor said, holding up a softball mitt. He chuckled at his own lameness. “It was a good day.”
Suddenly everything seemed metaphoric. I was terrified that I was about to get my ass kicked. Or rather, my heart trampled on. Everything Slump Buster said was like one more bulb in a neon sign that flashed “commitment phobe”. And yet…I was so enjoying the buzz I got from being in his presence.
“I never did find that stone,” Slump Buster said, referring to the good luck charm my yoga mentor had given me to increase my man magnetism. I’d lost it in his couch the first night Slump Buster went down on me. That stone later inspired an award-winning poem. “I’m convinced you did something with it. I’m sure you’re hiding it in a fallopian tube. That’s the story I like anyway.”
Slump Buster smiled. God, I'd missed him.
The neighbor and a buddy settled onto their porch, alternately chatting and glancing my way. Slump Buster stood up and motioned to the door. I was pretty sure what would happen if I went inside...and though nothing much had changed about either of us, at least on the surface, I wanted to believe that this time, something would be different. This time, I might get to have my cake and eat it, too.
And indeed, it was different. What happened next was another Man Eater first…
…but you’ll have to wait ‘til next time to find out if this story has a happy ending or if our reunion was, ahem, anti climactic…
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