Whenever I think I have it figured out something always happens to smack me across the face (or the ass, if I'm lucky) and remind me that I really have no fucking clue.
The Phantom of the Opera called me.
Like.
Out of the blue.
An actual phone call.
Not a bloody text.
He hasn't called me since he watched the Mad Men finale and thought of me.
Which as you hard core Joan Holloway fans know was more than a month ago.
I was getting ready to meet my parents. I had on this bright, floral dress and my hair was crazy curly. I felt really pretty.
And really happy.
And all of a sudden I looked at my phone and there was his name scrawled across the front.
He was CALLING.
I answered the phone surprised and happy.
He was happy too.
I don't even remember what we really said at first.
Small talk.
We were both on our way to brunch.
"Brunch is my favorite meal!" I exclaimed.
'It is?' He'd asked.
I swear I told him that once.
But what was really wonderful was how happy we both were just to talk to one another.
It's amazing how there are some people in our lives we can go through anything together, fight, cry, lash out, pull away, and after all of it, the only thing we feel is that we miss each other and we're so happy just to hear their voice speaking in our ear.
'I just wanted to tell you that I really admire you,' he said.
I was walking to my car and I stopped by the door.
I couldn't move as he spoke for the next few minutes and I was late meeting my parents because of it.
But I couldn't get in my car.
I was afraid to move.
'You're so transparent, almost to a fault. Almost. But you're so open and expressive, I really admire that about you. It overwhelmed me at first. It's part of what deterred me from wanting to date you. But then I realized how wonderful that is, how rare you are and I just wanted to tell you that. It's inspiring. You're inspiring, Teresa.'
I was quiet.
If we'd been together I would have just thrown my arms around him and not said a word.
But just held on too tight.
Just like I'd done the night he sang the song he wrote for me on his guitar.
But since it was a phone call I knew I had to speak.
"Thank you," I nearly whispered. "That really means a lot to me."
He apologized for not communicating better with me, for pushing me away, for not meeting with me so we could just talk this whole time.
He said he really was a good communicator and I said I thought he had been in the beginning.
But then it was like he turned into this other person and I didn't know which one was real.
'That's the real me. The one who communicates. That's who I am.'
And he told me that I was beautiful inside and out, that he just wanted to send love my way, that I wasn't just this beautiful, buxom woman but that who I was he admired.
And I was blown away.
'I've been thinking about you a lot.'
"You have?"
'Yes. And I wanted to tell you.'
I waited.
"Phantom?"
'Teresa.'
"I've been thinking about you too."
'Well you're much more fun to think about than I am.'
And we agreed we should meet up sometime.
And be friends.
'And I have much more free time now that school's over. You know what I want to do? I want to look at flowers. I haven't been to the gardens by Washington Park this year. Do you want to go look at flowers with me?'
And it's like, the most stupidly cute romantic thing he's ever suggested we do together.
But he just wants to go as friends.
Friends.
I literally lost my best guy friend because he didn't admire my openness and transparency, because my expressiveness offended him.
And here was this man I'd been pining for, the man who was proud to have me on his arm, the man who saw me perform and was so moved he had to kiss me, the man who admired how raw I am, even though it had originally overwhelmed him.
And instead of finally losing myself in his arms, in that kiss that made me dizzy, instead of surviving and overcoming all this shit with the amazing sex I'd been aching for weeks upon months.
He didn't want me anymore.
I know that being a man's mere play thing is nothing to being a woman he's inspired by and wants to be around without the expectations of ecstasy.
But how could I reconcile that the man I'd continually felt connected to, in spite of everyone telling me to just let go, really saw me, truly seeing the core of my heart, and found it beautiful, amidst its flaws, but he would not become my lover?
How was I supposed to settle once more for the men who won't even pay for my Jameson and expect me to lay in their beds when I'd been reminded of what it felt like to know someone was smiling at me without seeing me just by the way I heard him speak my name?
Dammit.
Why couldn't I just be fucking content?
He'd been so loving.
He cared for me and wanted me to be in his life.
That's what I'd wanted.
Why couldn't it be enough?
Why couldn't I be satisfied?
Because he was always more than just my friend.
He was my lover.
And I didn't know if my heart could ever see him as anything less.
But I was gonna try.
I was gonna really fucking try.
Because to have a man in my life who admires me?
Was a dream come true.
Even if only partially.
But a partial dream could still be magical.
Couldn't it?
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