Love and lust. An exploration continues.

I hesitate to write for I wish I could pen a fairytale. This does have the makings, but I pulse the brakes. Create a million stops, hoping I will catch up–but so many miles lie between your emotions and mine.

. . . I am not sure what it is I have learned, but I am learning. Every night he asks me the same thing, and my response remains. “It’s a possibility.”

It is too soon. And that he knows. What if I said yes– that I would marry him. What then? I would wear a ring and he would gain some sense of being able to maintain the happiness that has permeated his life?

Falling in love is a cathexis and if ever, this is one to note.  His words echo mine of S. And I realize that the act of falling in love, the lust, is much about feeling one with the other. Feeling complete, a superior you. He has changed at work and has closed a deal a day since we met. He stands taller. He wakes up earlier. Healthier. He feels like a better person. Effortless. High.. Genuine. This cathexis. This falling in love. I am the most important thing to hm. The feelings so deeply felt they need not be questioned, he wants to marry me, and would tomorrow.
My life is full of my passions and many of which are his, albeit dormant. And I suspect that when you meet someone who brings you closer to your own values, your own desired self, the feeling of love pervades.

I am the most important thing in his life right now and I feel it every moment, so much so. It is painful. This week was spent sharing time with friends, mine and his. We shared an evening with my colleague, T, the one person who is akin to family, the person who I believe my path thus far was intended to meet.

He had just arrived from a long five day love affair, although the lover is in New York, a relationship unfeasible, but it was a weekend of intimacy and passion at its best. We spoke about how difficult it was and the Impulsive Gentleman interjected, “That’s how I feel but there is no water in between. Every night I go to bed and I long for her (me) and she is within a drive’s reach, but I can’t see her.” The pain of which this was said was incredible..

I am continuing the process of getting to know him. I love the time we spend together, but it is not lust, not close. I laugh and find myself at ease. a slowly growing love. With his heels over his head, everyday is me pressing the brakes. Everyday is a mix of suffocating and enjoying. I find it curious. This gradual accumulation of feelings, my antiquated belief was in instantaneous.

His only goal is to make me the happiest woman for the rest of his life. He is patient and lacks frustration. This I admire, but I am mixed with doubt and concern that I don’t crave him enough ….

We will see. For now I unpack the dozen roses I just received,

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.

Beauty is not the only attractor

The night ends. The hundred candles are a mere resemblance of what they were six hours ago. I still recall the warm invigorating scent. I still see the shadows dancing on walls that extended 20 feet into the sky. The inner courtyards exposed a veil of stars and a faint light shone from the watching moon. The evening, perfect. The setting, unreal. 16th century, Moorish palette, an ambience, a perfect canvas.

We sit 18 feet under beamed ceilings and our feet kiss Italian tiles. The shadows cast from the archways obscure a grotto so inviting, magical, that I consider a short hiatus from the dinner. The secrets behind each passage and open area intrigue me, their provided breezes sustain me. She used the crystal and the silver, I learn as I shamefully place the silver in the washer.

I see him watching me from the corner of my eye. I am the “flame” this evening. He the moth. Our conversations are disparate, yet he continues to listen. He has only been here two days, but he feels “home.” I overhear him lean in and tell the host.

I walk. And he follows. I lean and the blue Italian tiles of the counter caress the small of my back. I smile. And he tells me I am a closed-book. We return to the table, now cleared, all of our glasses remain flickering in the light. We lean in over no less than twenty candles between us. Their light illuminates our expressions, our engaged eyes and connection. He continues, “a listener, an observer.” I accept these words, his sentiments a compliment. My mind travels and questions my storytelling moments. Earlier I stood hands up, “don’t shoot”—the table in tears. This is going in my book he said.

My mind returns pensive to our conversation. The others go outside gifting us with solitude, urging an intimacy or sensing a connection, I presume. Awareness in my acquaintances. A trait, I much admire. He recants my earlier words, the look in my eyes, he smiles and his eyes now ignite as he assigns an exact number to my mention of the word “balance.” My words are all noted. They were too by the others. A thesaurus, I am not. But this evening, my words captured.

I get up to use the restroom, the inviting grotto smiles in its darkness. I glance at my phone. 2am has approached too easily. Empty bottles placed in a perfect line. Our responses to each scrawled in pencil on the labels by the hostess. I don’t revive the intimacy. I don’t return to him and our table. It is time to leave. My colleague and I say goodbye. Light and empty promises of everyone seeing each other this coming evening.

The hostess lets us out the 20 foot wooden door. We leave and walk up the cobblestone street. The camera clicks. Moments captured on her wide format lens. Blurred images in the quiet street. Without flash. Simply outlines. Memories.

My colleague asks if I know who he is. He informs me.

He is here taking a break from his life of power . . . attaining balance.

The mare and the stars *

Trust. I could see nothing. Under a blanket of stars and a half cracker moon resting on the tops of the mountain, I failed to see the many trees and sleeping vacas that surrounded me. I could hear the coquis and the sounds of the twenty horses in front of me. Flickering lights from a few of the riders were the only guide.

I wanted to wait.The lone white horse, the powerful Arabian and the man on top were somewhere behind. I pulled my reigns and my horse danced circles in the darkness.

Then, stillness. The hooves in front of me were long gone. The return path unmarked. Nature. Sounds. Thousands of acres of mountains. I strained to see movement in the hill from which I descended. Nothing. I took in the land around me, a land I didn’t know. I hope he didn’t go a different way. It must have been 10pm. No phone. No sense of direction. I exhaled into the unknown.

And then I saw him. The moon highlighted his white coat and his powerful muscles. Another horse rode alongside him. The darkness hid me until they were but a few feet a way. “Ella espero.” A smile in the friend’s words as he rode on.

The Arabian neared and He asked me to wait a minute. He dismounted and approached, the Arabian followed. Trained like a model dog. Sensitive to all. His steps were of a teachers, coming to adjust something. Perhaps, my girth? But then he grabbed my hair as if it was a mane, and pulled my face towards his. His lips enveloped mine. Soft and wet. His tongue powerful. I relaxed into him. Threw away any inner dialogue. His arms wrapped around my body and pulled me off my mare, his mouth opened mine. We stood. Pressed between the two horses my body acquainted with his. I could feel him.

His hands traveled my body and I was pleased at his mass. His arms. His strength.

My mare, one to not like other horses, nuzzled his. We stood in the v of their bodies. It was a moment beyond any I have ever imagined.

The return through the darkness. How? I wondered. “The horses can see better than us,” he assured.

The Arabian and the Mare.

WIth our reigns dropped, we held hands as we traveled back.

I hate the words I love you.

Because work is taking over I will post a writing whose title has remained by my side since the day I wrote it

August 1, 2007

I hate the words I love you. A feeling of relief as a few moments pass. No doorbells. No returned anger. It is over. This war. His unleashing of anger in the elevator made my body shrivel, longing to disappear into itself. A part of me jumping, another trying to find some safe haven in which to hide. The moment of waiting for the elevator door to open, for me to quickly unlock the door—I long for Jamie to be on the couch serving as a convenient obstruction to this screaming match.

The moments are quick, abbreviated, like one of Mozart’s fiery staccatos. The feelings produced linger, the rest remains a blur. My soul chuckles and mocks, amazed at the drama produced from a friendship- an assumed relationship, however vastly premature. I want to crawl in bed and burrow my head in the covers. Jamie sits on my porch- finally stopping my actions- albeit a few moments late. I haven’t eaten. And I start. A hole feels larger. I stop and wonder, Why? Wasn’t I simply amused at the evening’s lunacy?

Searching for the hole. It brings me here. And I say to myself—– I hate the words I love you. I sit, part still, half empty.

Overcome with this fortunate problem of being loved.

Laughing at how others would respond to the prospect of such a problem. And I only feel emptier. I think of the picture that is so easy to paint. “He is in love with this girl. The chemistry. But she is afraid of her own shadow.” How convenient, no? What a pleasure it is to be told how I feel. I think about how this would seem from a distant perspective. Words from the argument float back.

Oh on the contrary! as I spew the facts. Resistance. The truth sits in the air and refuses to be grasped.

I stop the battle I cannot win. A battle where anything other than me having feelings, me making this person feel wanted, is a losing effort. The pressure. The manipulation.

This is crazy. Crazy. Crazy. I am still aghast at this evening. My thoughts travel to the moments before of I love you. And now I am hollow.

A false truth. Again.

I know. I know love is a fleeting feeling, fickle from the mouths that say it or the minds that believe they are in it. This night a testament to how false feelings are.

Love— And I am compelled to stop.

For now, I feel too much. More than the loss of a psychotic connection is the quiet message in all of this. I think back to the moments when I would cry at the words as a teenager.

How rare these three simple words; a childhood with a lack of them—–an adulthood with a false abundance. I can accept I am “loved”. I am lovely. I am kind and good and I love. I care. I long to not hurt others- instead I am paralyzed at the prospect.  But I am not really loved.

And then a different feeling washes over me.  I was overly aware of each daunting threat. My actions were all in line with my words. How could they not be—my actions, a carefully choreographed tiptoed approach. Another story was being told. I listened to this story. I listened to this painted picture and I am amazed at what a mind can create. I am amazed at this unwarranted drama. I am amazed at the threats, the volatility, the contingencies . .

the I love you . . . BUT.