Come over, he said. I have a deadline, she said. Oh come on, he said. Nope, gotta get this out, I’m responsible, she said. Hey, I have that champagne you like. Uh uh I have chocolate. I have peaches. I have clean sheets. It will … Continue reading Wanna talk?
Come to me this evening Violet, I have a lovely bottle of wine, nuts, the new Leonard Cohen…
Um nope, you come here. I have whisky, veggies, ice cream in the freezer.
We both hesitated. It had been a while. We needed to redefine our territory.
We needed neutral ground.
I arrived first and chose a lovely corner table. He arrived and immediately suggested we change tables.
We changed tables.
He had control.
He gave me a delicious box of chocolates. A peace offering?
I set them aside.
I took back control.
And then without waiting, I explained why I wouldn’t come to his home.
I know we’ll end up having sex, I said. And I don’t want that anymore.
He looked at me, mostly with surprise. He asked what I meant.
I mean, I do not want just sex. It is not enough for me. I want kindness. Gentleness too.
I said this to a man who cannot commit. Who I believe has intimacy issues.
I want to be held. I want someone to stroke me. I want to feel fingers, gently, running down my back. I may even want to be held. And hugged.
Quite hard for me to say these words. I too have intimacy issues.
Am I not gentle Violet? I have only ever been gentle.
It’s true. He has always been a gentleman.
He is a gentleman.
It goes back to commitment, I said. You’re never going to commit to me, and…
Maybe you need to tell me what you want, Violet. You’ve never told me. Is it commitment you’re after?
I couldn’t answer that.
Because I have no clue what I want.
I don’t know, I said. But I want more than what we have.
I got up to go to the bathroom. He got up too. I thought he was being polite.
Instead, he leaned in and over and hugged me.
A very hard, tight, warm, cosy, kind and gentle hug.
And I realised that I had been getting myself rather mixed up.
That not all men have intimacy issues.
And perhaps this one is more gentle than I think.
My date last night was good. Not the traditional kind of little black dress and legs touching under the table good, no seductive sharing of strawberries dipped in chocolate good, and definitely no smouldering sexy looks or even a hint of sex good.
But really good in a different way. We sat in the kitchen where it was warm and cosy and listened to Leonard Cohen. We drank whisky while we thought about slashing our wrists, because of Leonard Cohen. And we spoke about our lives, memories brought on by the magnificent Leonard Cohen.
He cooked while I chopped the mushrooms. He didn’t know that I’d once chased my ex-husband round the kitchen table with a chopping knife. Now he does. He still trusted me with the knife.
He shouldn’t have.
He told me many stories. He showed me photographs. I may have rolled my eyes at the photographs, because sweet dear god yellow t-shirt, you just don’t show photographs on a first date.
You never ever do that.
But still; it was a cool first date.
I don’t know if it will go anywhere. He has a fuckload of baggage. I have a fuckload too.
He’s also not perfect. He’s anti-social, colour codes his clothing and there’s that thing of his virility.
And he’s a little shy and a lot vulnerable. And the timing is not great.
But he looks good in waistcoats and he cooks really well
I’m a bit sorry we never got to kiss.