Four in the morning Friday, I realized: I MUST see the Ex.
This letter that I've been writing in my head every night for the past six weeks? That I have been outlining, revising, proofreading, power-pointing? Translating from English to German and back again?
It is not a letter at all. It is a conversation.
Face him, I thought. Tell him what you believe.
Not because I think I can sway him. Not because I even want to. But because I want him to know. Precisely where I stand.
And I must say it. Or else this spine of mine might forever be soft as taffy.
Yesterday, at Cafe Sowohlalsauch, I reported this to my Serbo-Croatian literary hot stuff friend. "It came to me in the night," I told her. "Immediately I felt strong. And tall." Except that I was lying down.
"Then you must," she said.
"Or I will never be free of him."
Across the street, suddenly, a sheet of raindrops, caught in the sunlight. Where we sat: entirely dry.
"It's God!" We laughed. "Sending us a message." And I think we both believed it.
* * *
Today, at Sowohlalsauch, I made the same report to Dylan. "I want him to harbor no illusions," I said, "of what I think about his reasoning."
"But..." She looked at me so kind, in her pretty pale blue blouse. "Do you really believe he did the wrong thing?"
I paused.
"Because, you can do so much better." Her eyes were limpid as sky.
I paused again.
She launched into his shortcomings. As any good girlfriend should. She didn't need to.
"You're right," I jumped in.
Funny. How, for the first time, I actually believed it.
The waiter brought Dylan her coffee. My cup was already half-drained. Black, with sweetener.
"You can take my milk," I told him. And handed him my mini-pitcher of foamy white, full.
He balanced it on his tray, stepped away.
"Those eyebrows!" I murmured. A forest. "Those lips!" Cresting waves.
Dylan chuckled. "You said that milk thing sooo flirtatious."
"Really?"
* * *
Dylan has a plan for me. Not involving the waiter. Rather, her roommate. Leonine forehead. Silvering mane. He is an Ossie. You do not realize he is handsome. Until suddenly: My. God! Is that his testosterone that bowled me over?
He needs a girlfriend.
"Doesn't he have issues?"
"I think he is afraid," she said.
I shook my head. I am through with the hesitant. The meek. The undecided. You better chase me, buster. "I'm not doing like I did with the Ex."
Besides, the waiter's smile is probably all I can handle right now. That and
the weekly sightings of Secret Agent Man. Square jaw. Buff as brick. A vigorous gentleman indeed!
He asked me to the movies. In a totally vague, non-committal, platonic-ish sort of way. Which is just right.
That was last week, right around the same time my holistic healer handed me the snow-white swan feathers. The next day I discovered I was one of the few authors reading at the Madonna book release party (an honor!). And the literary agent I'd sent part of my memoir to? She reported being "intrigued" (holy cow!). She wants to see more.
Hmm, I thought, this whole "wobbly before you fly" thing... My healer might have a point.
Then, of course, Mr. Epstein Barr laid me flat.
There goes that.
Still, the air currents sure were nice. While they lasted.
I sense good things. Good, good things.
Posted by: Julie @ the calm before the stork | August 10, 2008 at 11:53 PM