This is not fiction. “Engaged” or in spanish, “Comprometido”

It was Friday. I agreed to lunch with the Impulsive Gentlemen. He showed up at my office, dapper as always. We go to the Parisian Bistro (yes, in Puerto Rico). He orders a bottle of wine to which I agreed to one glass. We joke, laugh and enjoy our meal. Before I rush back to the office, he questions, “Will you marry me?”

My lips form a smile and my eyes pierce his. “It’s a possibility.”

The spontaneous trip was only a week ago, the first time I had seen him outside of social settings or meetings. And honestly, I still am deciding whether I am ready to date him. This lunch is our first reunion since our trip to BVI.

And this marriage talk, is surely just a joke.

“We must have forgotten our wedding rings at home”

I joke back,”I will start putting a ring of sunsceen around my finger so atleast I have a tan line.”

Our kids will be named Stephan Andre (insert fancy royal sounding last name here) and Andrea Stephania. I simply smile.

———————————-

“What dress will you wear tonight?” (We are going to the Phanton of the Opera.)

He is to pick me up at 7pm. At 6:40, I text him

“Navy blue.”

“What is it like?”

“Backless, halter, long.”

7:00 He is in the courtyard leaning against the bricks. Waiting as I descend. He opens my car door and I get into the Black SUV. He enters the drivers side and hands me a beautiful green box. I open it to find an amazing silver bullet clad with little diamonds and long silver earrings. He reaches over and carefully puts each long silver earring in my ear and secures the stunning silver diamond bullet around my neck. I catch my reflexion and I am in awe at myself. I notice the audience from outside. He turns the ignition on, turns to me and says, “One more thing . . ”

He hands me a ring- a canary diamond with diamonds on the side. White gold. It fits like a glove.

I thought it was a joke. A mother’s ring, or fake, or something from somewhere. But then, he later mentioned he bought another one. “I would marry you tomorrow.” White diamond and gold. So I can match it with what I am wearing . . .

“Compromised,” he says. Words being lost in translation. I think, how appropriate. Yes, I am most definitely compromised.

Just bring your passport. -the stranger.

I wonder what it is. I note a difference-one that transcends the now that is relevant.

A perfect weekend. My thoughts drifted to S but not without relief. A heart wasn’t pained, just pensive. This weekend isnt what I expected. A man who I have never before dated spontaneously invited me to the British Virgin Islands. Hours later we were in flight. I welcomed the adventure and the departure from thinking about S.

Now truly “what next?” is something I wonder- I am not sure. I am apprehensive. Commitphobic. I can continue and will, but without pressure, without being bound. As long as I can see where this goes before it involves rules. I now wear S’s shoes. I am the one that doesn’t want the tethers of a relationship with this new man.

 

I sit writing watching pelicans nosedive into brilliantly clear water. My toes crinkle the fine sand that engulfs them. It is Monday morning. He is in the room sleeping. We are in a famed romantic hotel on the the most amazing unspoiled island. This place secluded and exclusive. A truly special hotel. The spa perced on the mountain offered a blissful Sunday.

I feel extremely comfortable with this man, and more importantly, I am happy. But I question what home will bring. Could this be a relationship? I am not yet ready. With S, I never questioned. However, it was not effortless. The process was vulnerable. I believe we didn’t trust eachother, trust a future us.

The new relationship is intimate without pretense, comfort. But, how could it not be? A business lunch with a casual last minute invitation to an island I knew nothing of. Hours later I filled out one custom form per his deciding we were “married.” The holding hands and “dear” to play the part, soon became the norm. He kissed me later and every hour since has been as if this is the way it has always been. Him and I.

But I think of S. I think of my desire to not publicize this and be bound. And I think of the strangers’ comments on Friday just hours before I came to BVI. I spoke briefly of S and she noted how much he meant to me. How I changed when I said his name. How he clearly struck a chord with me and is in my heart. How right she was and is. I recall his words and take them for face value. “Take care Smith.” We have spoken regularly since. I question if it is out of courtesy. I desire to see him and say something. I am not ready to let my almost go and his actions tell me perhaps nor is he.

But a man would reverse an end not meant. I need to see him and close the door, to know if it is open for I return now, “married” in an effortless romance to whom I deem, the Impulsive Gentleman.

To my almost . . .

Almost my better half-

My thoughts are devoted to you right now. I am trying to not think about you, let my thoughts just be. But your eyes and your words are too distracting. I hear the charming words, I see you on top of me as you pinned my arms and tried to tickle me, I see you next to me in the car, staring and touching my beauty marks, I feel the heat of your body as we passed each other in the gym, touched lightly and made everyone take note that perhaps someone had me, I feel your hands on my hips as you taught me balloneta, your fingers on my lips as your attempted to teach my tongue how to roll it’s r’s. The many moments of silence as your listened to me and always digested my words, pausing before you spoke. Truly soaking in the minutia of what I said. My heart hurts with these memories. My heart hurts more with the knowledge of what could have been.

My girlfriend’s words last night on how much she likes you, how great you are. I could only think in anger then that she should have been using past-tense. I felt she was not helping. How attractive you are. What a gentlemen. Yes, I know. I said. Can’t we just focus on how him and I were not right?

I wonder now if that was truly our end. “Take care Smith”. (Substitute Smith for my last name, which is what he called me) I wonder where you are in this moment. Your childhood friend/other business partner is visiting and your itinerary is booked. I imagine you laughing, enjoying. I sit typing, hearing the crashing of the ocean. My lights dim as a second light has met its end in the 24 hours since ours. Perplexed at how I change these lights that are 14 feet above me. I wish our end had a solution—was simply challenging but fixable, like this hard to reach light fixture.

For now, I will sit in darkness, the white saliva of the ocean as the light to this dark. 

 

 

My ocean before the darkness:

Dad’s advice regarding relationships

As I walked to my car, I sat, forehead in my hands, the door ajar. The rearview mirror reflected a glimpse of hollow eyes. Dry. Eyes that longed to be wet. Once again, there were no tears to be found—it seems these days there never are.

As I drove over the bridge I asked for them, pleaded, floodgates open, please. Unanswered. Surrounded only by a desert of emotions.

My father called. The father who has only become a figment of that role in the past year. And I shared, divulged the subconscious torment that was beginning to unveil itself to my conscious. On the surface my emotions remain unscathed, but a teardrop that crawled down my face upon hearing my mother’s name two weeks ago proved that the truth lies elsewhere. My shoulders have also become the physical manifestation of my repressed emotions. The pain so intense I forked over $180 last Wednesday for the only massage I could find at 8pm. The gift of our bodies.

Psychological pain syndromes are actually defense mechanisms designed to cover up sensitive or unresolved emotional issues. The subconscious mind feels that these issues are so threatening to the well being of the individual, that it will do anything to prevent the issues from becoming conscious. This process is called repression. When repression is not enough to guarantee that the painful issues will remain hidden, the subconscious will create psychosomatic symptoms to preoccupy the conscious thoughts of the individual. This conscious focus on the pain is a very effective means of making sure that repressed emotional issues remain well hidden.

This in combination with the sabotaging of my relationship Monday night had me convinced I was a psychological, repressed mess. I must figure out how to fix myself, again. Thoughts of seeing a therapist danced in my mind. I thought of S, his stability and my contrasting instability. The cards dictate that I am destined to be single.

I initially attracted S because I was in a stable period, inspired by a new project of my own making and in love with my life’s ability to grant me to time to enjoy my passions. We matched . . . temporarily. Now, I am complex, messed up, and a saboteur.

But then came my father’s words. Advice, a first. He told me, “It doesn’t matter how messed up you think you are—what matters is that you share who you are with that person. The person then has the ability to meet your needs or not. The right person will want to learn how.” Such a simple truth, one I have known but knowledge and application are not the equivalent. My father’s multiple dictations of the above allowed it to permeate, a calm overcame me. I stopped worrying about whether I fucked up. I emailed S with an explanation. I shared how I work. The outcome was not in my hands or tied to my actions. Relief.

This morning I felt something I never had. As if my father gifted me another leg on which to stand. I noted my solitary life and my limited internal reach of my emotions. I realized how precious speaking is. How vital support can be. It’s not something built in my life and often when I seek, my calls are returned unanswered. But, for now, I am stronger, balanced, and once again, myself. And my shoulders feel a hell of a lot better.