Azaleas and Apathy

I agreed to go out with the sweaty guy again. On a hot day. To the botanical garden. He has allergies.

This sounds irrational but it was actually well thought out because all I want to do is see/touch/kiss/fall in crazy love with Foreigner 2.0.

Sitting in Sweaty’s girly convertible, wandering through the budding spring blooms, riding the shuttle filled with 812 Asian children, consuming a cheeseburger topped with onions is not conducive to French kissing. I was right. He kept his tongue in his mouth. Thank you Jesus.

It truly was a gorgeous day with Dallas and White Rock Lake in the background. Afterwards we went balcony chilling and enjoyed some food and beer. I was highly paranoid I would somehow run into the object of my obsession…my brand new grey haired European. Totally irrational because I am pretty sure he was on a plane flying back from the West Coast.

So while my date seemed fully engaged in me and our planned activity, my mind was off daydreaming about rocket man. Fluctuating between precarious melancholy and a feverish anxiety.

Why am I not here with him?
Why are there so many beautiful girls in Dallas?
Why am I so old?
I will never be happy.
Etc.

And then I would think about our date…

It was my 32nd birthday. I walked into that Mexican restaurant 5 minutes late and there he sat at the bar. With a glass of water and looking down at his phone. Tilt, tilt, tilt goes the world’s axis. Pounding. Oh god it’s the best feeling in the world. That date that lasts 6 hours. For me it is the best drug in the universe. The romance dance. The flirting. The talking. The guessing. Does he like me too? I think he likes me…maybe?

He said “Look at me Jess – you can get 2 pieces of cake”. I had my head down studying the choices and just couldn't decide between the chocolate Kahlua or Tres Leches. I looked up into his eyes and lost feeling in my body. I melted into a malleable gift for him to do with what he saw fit. And oh boy did he ever.

We were there for 3+ hours. The wait staff kicked us out. He invited me to a bar for one more beer. I think the fire department could have called and said my house is burning down and I would have ignored the call and followed him to that dark booth. I felt like the most beautiful girl in the world (I get it Rhianna, I really do).

We talked about politics, films, travel, books, and he quoted fucking Noam Chomsky. He told me I have beautiful eyes…so blue and those cheekbones. He told me how he brought his daughters to see Santa in the North Pole. Seriously? Skiing in France. Really? I wanted to leap across the table and bite his lips when he started in with his views on idealistic free market socialism. Do you want me to take me clothes off right here? Because if you don’t stop, I will.
I made him laugh with stories of AK-47’s and refrigerators and Cindy Lauper. Yes, I drove away from Duluth to start my new life in Texas listening to Time After Time. So what?

He smells so good. Spicy.

He is animated when he talks. He kept leaning closer and closer with his hands until they touched mine. And I desperately held on with my pinky finger. Let go. And then the hands come back again and again until they are finally fully holding mine. Rubbing my arms. Oh the goose bumps and that warm, slow sashay of physical desire that wells up from the belly.

And then he kissed me. With such force and passion and need. And I saw stars. Before the seeping green tea with blood orange was even cool.

Will I see him again? Unlikely. But heaven help me, it was a perfect fucking birthday. Most people go through their entire lives and not experience a night like that. I have been blessed to have reveled in several. In that moment I am utterly alive, every nerve and emotion vibrating. I may not be built for marriage but I sure can rejoice in my ability to feel transcendent lust.

I think this pretty much sums up my complete indifference about nice sweaty guy.