On a Wednesday in May

The texts she had sent were clear. She wanted me to come to her house, she wanted us to drink red wine, she wanted us to smoke pot, and she wanted to fuck.

She texted those words. To me.

Sure, before that weekend, I hadn’t really heard from her for about six weeks. There was the happy birthday text she sent on a day that was very clearly not my birthday. The message was sent at 1 AM, apparently she’d set a calendar reminder for the day she THOUGHT was my birthday.

She obviously didn’t have it in her memory, but I guess she was at least trying. We talked (texted) briefly that day. But, that was it. One day, a few texts, that was all in a six week period.

Before that six weeks of silence, she’d told me she loved me. It was the first time she had actually said those words out loud. We’d known each other for two years. We dated for a few months, then took a break, then were back on in a sort of less formal dating arrangement.

Then, the text and phone call in March where she told me she loved me. The next week, I went by her house - just because. I knocked, she didn’t answer. I knocked again, called, sent a text. Nothing.

She finally responded as I was driving home. Just that she’d had a bad day. Then, nothing from her. Well, except that accidental birthday message. Not for six weeks.

What was she doing? What had happened?

In any case, I was delighted the weekend she texted me, though more guarded and cautious in light of the disappearance. So, when she said we should drink and smoke and fuck, I told her I was all in but also told myself none of those things would happen.

Tuesday came and we’d still been texting off and on. She asked if I was up for our “date” tomorrow - Wednesday. Could I come by?

Yes, my afternoon and evening could absolutely be free for her. Still, I suspected something would happen and she’d cancel. I’d known her long enough to know that was the way.

Wednesday.

We’re texting most of the morning. She asks when I can come over. I give her a time. We agree to meet, to talk, to drink red wine.

I drive to her home and pick up flowers on the way.

She serves me red wine, just as promised. She makes sure to let me know she’s shaved, and I can see a bit of blood from a cut on her lower leg. She’s wearing mismatched socks and yoga pants and she looks incredible.

Tall, blonde, youthful. Shower fresh, smelling delicious. I don’t even want to drink wine or smoke pot. I just want her.

We talk about our past together, about the other people who’ve been in and out of our lives.

We’ve had a bit of wine and we order Mexican food. We eat a bit, then go out to her deck to smoke. I’m not a big weed person, so it hits me pretty strong and I like it and we go back in and eat and watch TV.

I can’t wait to touch her, but we’re talking, she’s talking.

Finally, I look at her and say the words I’ve wanted to say for so long. I tell her I love her. I put my hand on her leg and tell her I love her.

She just looks at me. Even though six weeks before she’d told me she loved me, this time she just looks at me.

She asks me what that means.

I tell her that when I’m with her there’s a feeling I can’t describe, a feeling like being able to touch the sun and still live. That I’ve known something like that feeling only one other time.

I tell her I love her.

She pours more wine. She’s drinking more and faster now, and she’s pretty fucked up and touching me off and on, but also not really making it to the kitchen for the wine.

I ask her to just sit, to just be. I can’t fuck now, I can’t do that with her while she’s in that state. Plus, I’m feeling a bit strange from the wine and the pot and the not hearing I love you back.

After things have calmed down, the tension from the moment has gone, I tell her I’m going to go home. She looks at me sadly, then tells me she can’t wait to see me again, she’s glad I was able to be there.

I tell her, again, that I love her. I text her when I get home, and she texts back “goodnight.”

We text off and on until Saturday, then she just disappears again. This time for only two weeks. When she returns, it’s on the phone. She wants to meet again.

I’m not sure what to do.

I suspect that there’s another man. Or that her drinking is worse than I’d imagine. Or, both.

It turns out, it was both. There were two other men. There was lots of drinking. We would spend more time together, but the disappearances kept up and the drinking more excessive.

I couldn’t just walk away.

I should have, I wish I had all the time.

I wish that on a Wednesday in May, I’d left her house telling her I loved her and telling myself not to see her again.

But, endings are never quite how we’d like them to be. So, instead, I’d wait until she told me about one man and then I found out about the other. And then I’d walk away.

She still sends me messages. Sometimes, I respond. But, I’m not seeing her. I can’t. I know I deserve better.

Rather than be one of several men in a steady rotation, I want to be the one. I told her that.

We had many beautiful moments, even a few after that day in May. But, I would much rather my last memory of being with her be the one where I looked into her eyes and told her I loved her.