Falling in Love — Part 6: Breaking to Pieces
Eventually, he told me he was still in love with his wife and wanted her to take him back. He said he didn’t think he should mislead me with sex.
Forget about moving into his spacious, luxurious one-bedroom apartment and tossing out the wife’s furniture. Joey did not want what I wanted, after all. His dog still loved me.
I was a walking car crash. “Wow” barely covers this.
I was the addict, now, addicted to love. I needed to get sober. We would have made a beautiful baby. I told him no more contact for one year and took solace in my tarot cards — four queens in the deck and they all stood for me.
Joey called a respectful fourteen months later, so I met him for brunch. He was scruffy in his motorcycle leathers, smoking cigarettes again, still on pain killers supposedly for his back pain, still married and back to sex though not with his wife. He wanted to be “friends”. Uhhh. How can I say it in French? “Hell no!” You’re not good at being a friend. Forget falling in love. No more longing for tenderness. I’ve got better things to do.
I can swim, bike, run, read and be kind to whoever crosses my path. I’ll take a class. My eyes are open.
At the flea market, the following weekend, I met someone new who was very polite and had a smattering of silver hair. After a few supported accidents of running into him during our separate Sunday saunters through the aisles of antique tea cups, knock-off perfumes and $10 watches, he asked for my number. Desire stirred. Hope brewed. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Ok, let’s just see.
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The End
