Baby Steps

My psychotic ex-lover called me yesterday to tell me that he is graduating from college, has already begun his Master's work, and that his mother is dying in a local hospital. I didn't take that call, I just listened to the message.

When he called back, I answered. Mistake number one.

I congratulated him for his hard work. We discussed the goings-on with his mother, and how the inoperable tumors in her brain (which actually explain a lot about her, too late, of course) are shutting down her body's systems one by one. She succumbed to a coma earlier that day and he wondered aloud if she knew that she was alone. I hypothesized that her current state must be the penultimate state - while still embodied - wherein the human feels as connected as possible. We agreed that her entire being must now be focused on breaking the bonds of the flesh.

And it was easy, oh so easy, to feel him again. To know it and want it and taste it and need it. Even knowing how the story ended does absolutely nothing to negate the beauty of how it began.

And so, when he suggested that we meet later for coffee, I agreed. Mistake number two.

Because "coffee" means sex. "Talking" means sex. "A bite to eat" means sex. As the words left my mouth, the survivalist part of my brain sadly shook it's head and turned to sharpen the blades it would need for that meeting, muttering "no, no no...."

While my body shrieked, "YES!! Yes, please!! I'll be right here! Waiting!! All night!!!"

Pathetic, I agree.

A couple of hours before it was time to go, I had second thoughts. I called and left a message indicating that something had come up and I probably wouldn't make it. He called back and left a message asking that I let him know for sure by his class break at 1915.

At 1900, I left the house and starting driving. I called and said I was on my way.

The class was on break when I pulled up, and he was waiting. My breath caught, just like always, to see him standing there: Viking warrior, predatory and dangerous, so handsome in his business attire. We chatted briefly, easy and familiar like nothing had ever happened, and he asked me to wait until he finished his final presentation. I agreed. Mistake number three.

BUT...

I didn't stay.

I didn't even call.

I took the coward's way out and left a note with a page torn out of my Thomas Guide. I filled the page with drivel (I am sorry about your mother and wish I could help... congratulations again... Happy Birthday...blah, blah, blah), but managed to convey the underlying truth that there is no going back.

And I turned off the phone.

Yes, time has healed so many wounds. And there is no doubt in my mind that I will want him, so badly that it colors everything I touch, for the rest of my life, despite the fact that his existence is toxic to mine. I'm not proud of myself for Mistakes One through Three... but I am proud for doing the right thing even after it appeared the wrong thing was inevitable, even if I did it in a chickenshit way.

At least I did it. Which means I am capable of doing it. Which I didn't know until yesterday.

My body is super pissed at me, though.