He’d been adorably emailing me from work all day and so our
conversation was a back and forth volley of verbal sparring, the kind I love
the best, a sort of mental ping pong that keeps me on my toes and far from
bored.
Downstairs at my desk at work, I opened an email and
couldn’t help but turn to my work colleague, M and grin wide.
¨If I didn’t know any better,¨ I laughed out loud, ¨I’d say
this one is interested.¨
And then I was so excited about the damn date I proceeded to sleep
like crap the night before. Crashed at
one am, only to toss and turn until 3:30. Woke up for a brief half hour to
work, then laid back down from 4 to 6. Up
for good at 7:30. Caffeinated like mad all day, took a disco nap from
5:30 to 6:30, and then attempted to make myself look smoking hot, which
apparently I succeeded in because the night ended with This One telling me that
he’d been dying to kiss me the first five minutes of our date. Oh, I am a sly little coquine...
* * *
The first five minutes of that date go a little something
like this: I show up to a restaurant and there he is sitting waiting after I
text him to tell him I’m a few metro stops away.
¨It’s ok, you’re Parisian now, always 15 minutes late!¨ He
texted jokingly.
¨No, not 15, I promise!¨
So I arrive and he’s nonchalantly sipping an American beer and
I’m a tad nervous but excited to have fun.
And discussion begins. But This One doesn’t bore me. This One is quite fun. And I get the distinct impression he’s
feeling me out and playing with him, making sure I fit a category of criteria,
not in a superficial sort of way, but that he’s trying to decipher me to know
if I’m worth the chase. I can’t tell if this is some sort of Parisian séducteur par excellence game, but he is
playing for sure.
I play right back.
* * *
This One is a bit older than I am, but I prefer that. After
dinner, over drinks, he makes it clear how frank he is. Between the laughing
and the playing are some things I think he is more serious about, though he
seems to veil them.
¨Why don’t you have a boyfriend?¨ He inquires. Part of this
is curiosity, part of it is, I am sure, trying to make sure I’m not psychotic.
I explain what I’ve spent the last two years of my life doing, I explain that
I’ve just finished in May, that I had no real time to date, I explain that I am
a picky b*tch when it comes to
gentlemen and that I prefer not to waste my time.
¨I like that phrase,¨ he laughs. Then proceeds to explain
that he is much the same, that he knows what he wants and knows it when he sees
it. This surely rings a bell with me.
Time to turn the tables: ¨Why don’t you have a girlfriend?¨
He explains he did when he returned, they dated for a while,
but he figured out fast that she wasn’t what he was looking for, she wasn’t The
One for This One and so he broke it off, though he surely gave her the benefit
of the doubt.
I cannot tell what his motivations are, because given his age he could surely just be
dating to date, but I don’t quite sense that either. Behind the smoke screen of
this game we are playing, behind the half joking poker face, I think, is a more serious agenda. It's too early to tell.
¨It’s ok,¨ he laughs at certain points. ¨Next time we’ll do this and
this…¨ and rattles off a list of things I need to do in Paris.
¨Oh, so there’s going to be a next time?¨ I tease. This throws him off.
¨Will there be?¨ he pauses and gives me a coy grin.
¨I don’t know yet, we haven’t reached the end of this time
yet.¨ I smirk.
* * *
In some small, stupid way I am afraid that by writing this,
I am dooming this to fail. Call it a minor superstition, but this is why I’ve held
off writing about This One for a bit after our date. There is something about This One I want to
keep to myself anyway, something about him I do not want to make blog fodder,
so if I am a little more vague than usual, forgive me.
It’s always at the start of something that you wonder how it
will finish, a natural human curiosity, if you will…and any good storyteller
will always know the punch line before she gets there. This is the part that
differentiates my blog writings from being my version of real life and being no more than
an invented tall tale.
Over those drinks though This One asks me about the end of our evening. He stares at me
across the table and says one question that forces me to pause and think
strategically. We are throwing one another these complex volleys of human
intention and strategizing our way through the evening.
¨ So Lindsay, tell me…how is tonight going to end?¨
I pause.
¨Well, I think you’re going to walk me home. I think you’re
going to try and kiss me, and then I think I’m going to tell you goodnight.¨
* * *
Which is more or less what happens. He makes me take his arm
and we walk from near the Opéra across the Seine to my place. By the end he is
holding my hand and as we traverse the bridge leading from the Louvre to the
rue du Bac, we see the lights glimmer like flakes of gold on the rippling
surface of the river.
¨Beautiful night, beautiful city, and a man standing next to
you, what more could you want?¨ He asks with a smile.
¨Nothing,¨ I say. And I truly mean it.
This One walks me to my door, without hesitation kisses me,
lingers for a while. Tells me to make him leave when I need to make him leave,
but that he really wants to see me again.
¨I really want to see you again, too.¨ We kiss one more
time, and then not long after, I send him on his way.
* * *
Now the panic and the doubts set in: what if he really is
just playing with me? What if he says he wants to see me again but really
doesn’t? How can I be sure he isn’t going to see ten other girls at the same
time, that this is not a Parisian séducteur toying with me? Already his age
would be a step in the opposite direction, but I can’t yet gauge what his
motives are.
Oh lord, I want nothing more than to run in the other
direction as fast as I can and to find every excuse to drop this right now,
find everything I can to wiggle my way out of this one before my heart gets
smashed into a million pieces.
This is pure panic. This is me being terrified because I
don’t get terrified like this unless I think I could really have something with
someone, because I don’t let just anyone get near me. I feel unglued and in over my head.
But I’m also smarter this time: this is not just about me
fitting his standards, it’s also about me having demands and not settling for
less. I’ve learned this the hard way. It’s about me knowing what I’m worth and
not settling for less.
He texted again on Sunday nonetheless after I said hello and
said to message him upon my return….I’ve conveniently run off to Bretagne for
three weeks ( no joke, but it was pre-planned before I met him).
I told him this when he mentioned taking me to a Bastille
Day party.
¨It’s a bummer,¨ he said, ¨But it’s only three weeks.¨
With a bit of a heavy heart I left Paris when now I would
really rather be watching the fireworks during his fête nationale.
To his text message he added:
¨Wanna see you again for sure.¨
Now for a three week cool my sh*t period where I hit the
breaks, don’t go from 0 to 60 in 3.5 seconds, and find a way to set the pace of
this game.
Let's hope the game resumes quickly upon my return in two weeks.
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