Nine Months

You took nine months off. That’s all I needed to know. That should have been all I needed to know. There was a night in December and we’d been texting and yes, we’d been strained. But, that night, you ended with this:

“This is all too much, it’s more than I can handle.”

I didn’t know what that meant. Until you didn’t respond that night and didn’t respond the next day. We’d made plans to exchange gifts, but you didn’t return my call.

Had I been blocked?

I had been, it seems.

I sent a Happy New Year message, and nothing.

I mailed one of your gifts. Nothing.

So, ok. You were done. This was it. Our time was over, our moment had passed.

We had started around Labor Day and ended at Christmas. Fine. I mean, not what I wanted, but fine.

I would move on. After a January filled with too much bourbon and a weekend filled with some delightful fucking with another desperate soul, I moved on.

My life was actually going pretty well, looking up. A brilliant woman was very interested in me, and though we lived far apart, we were seeing each other some and talking a lot.

My career looked good - I would soon land a job with a beautiful office and a salary that paid more than I’d ever made before. Plus, I was doing some contract work - the life I’d imagined - had wanted to share with you, was becoming my reality. Only you weren’t there.

Still, I surmised you might come back into my world again. And, well, I wanted to be ready. I wanted to be able to tell you I’d done it - that I had done what I said I was going to. That what you’d seen in me -- that all those times you’d told me I was amazing. That you were right.

You were right, of course. I am amazing. Incredible, even. You once sent me a list of all the ways I was (am) incredible.

I still have it, but don’t even need to look at it because it is seared into my mind.

So, I was surprised when after nine full months, I woke up to find you’d texted me. You sent a picture of a gift I’d given you. Then a picture of your apartment. Then you’d called me. I didn’t answer, of course. My phone was in my closet, where I kept it (and still keep it) at night so I can actually sleep.

I suspected you’d made a mistake, that you didn’t actually want to talk with me. You, this person I compared with the sun. You, the woman with the brightest internal light I’d ever experienced. You, the one with tremendous potential and eternal hope. You had reached out to me again. After nine months.

And, well, that should have been all I needed to know. That you could go nine months without once reaching out. That you could leave what we had in a single instant. That you could walk away and not one time check to see how I was doing or let me know you were ok.

I assumed your light was burning bright alone or with another man, one more worthy than I to receive your affection.

Still, I held out a bit of hope. And then, you texted again. At 2PM. So it wasn’t just a late night drunk text. You really wanted to talk to me. And, well, talk you did. We did.

It felt just like it had when we started talking the year before. Like it had before that last day and night.

You’re brilliant. And you know this. What you may not know is what your mind does to me. What you make me feel with just your words. To be in your presence, well, that’s an entirely different kind of amazing.

Still, while I’d moved on, I had also spent a lot of time thinking about and wondering about and worrying about and caring about you.

You had taken nine months and not once reached out.

So, after we’d been texting again for a few weeks, I should not have been at all surprised when you just disappeared again for 10 days.

I should not have been surprised to get the texts implying sexual desire followed by the days of no response at all.

Instead, I was thrilled to have drinks with you and spend most of an evening with you. Delighted when you hugged me tight, like you had a year before.

When you cancelled our coffee date two days later, I just laughed - it reminded me of the way we were, and of course, you’d be back.

You were back, of course. But I wasn’t the only man on your mind. Not even the most important. Maybe the third or fourth. The one you texted AFTER no one else had responded in an hour.

Yes, I thought your nudes were exquisite. Yes, I found your latest work incredible. Yes, I did just send you a funny card or a simple flower.

And yes, while I was doing all of that, you were with him. Or, the other him.

Still, we’d eventually meet again … and again. We’d spend parts of May and most of June together. We’d dance and sing and drink and laugh for eight weeks starting in mid-September.

And then, well, you did what you do.

And in the course of about five minutes, two years of you was gone. I was sad, angry, hurt. It still hurts.

I can’t see you now, not again. Maybe not ever. Yes, I’ll return your texts. Though it’s not clear at all why you want to talk with me, or see me. It’s not clear why you couldn’t have told me.

I don’t understand, really. I’ve thought about it a lot. Too much. But, the reality is I’m not what you want.

There’s no way I could be. Not really.

And, I should have known that when you took nine months off - if you can go nine full months with nothing, you don’t want me. Not when I’m right here, not when I’ve made myself clear.

I should have known, after nine months, how this would end. Instead, I danced with you for a few more precious moments. And now, now I hurt. My body and soul ache. But, now I know. I’m sure, I’m clear.

I don’t understand it, but I acknowledge the reality.

I should have ignored you after nine months. But I would have missed those few more moments of beauty we shared.

Now we’re both moving on and no matter what words you say, I know the truth.