Things are never what they seem and I find myself continually surprised at the lasting footprints we are capable of leaving on another person’s trail of life. That could be one of the single greatest things that my travels have taught me so far; the amount of time physically knowing or spent with a person can be so brief, yet meaningful in its own right. Never say never and nothing is ever, ever cut and dry. For better or worse.
A mistake or maybe even sweetness of youth is that we often believe so strongly in the finality of our decisions, aspirations, and connections. Sometimes the thought of these things ending, or worse yet, that we may have been wrong in some way, can really knock our cocky little socks off. Shortly after my “yes-there-are-a-million-problems, but if this is not forever, I will certainly die” relationship finally came to its painfully, brutally, excruciatingly long end, I found myself in the company of another quite interesting character. I had been so caught up in my desire of one person, who to be fair I did share genuine mutual love with, and the notion of “forever”, that I had unknowingly closed myself off. While no great affection remains or ever even existed for the interesting character that followed, there is an unmistakable endearment tied to the memory.
He was a friend of a friend and nothing more than an exaggerated blip on my radar, but in retrospect, left an impression that deserves recognition. They were visiting for an event in the city where I was living at the time and probably not more than 30 hours were spent together in total. We had a wonderful night full of talk and laughter, and at the end of it, without invitation he quietly slipped between the sheets of my oversized and very uncomfortable Italian bed. This was the first of several cross-roads. Because nothing is ever truly simple, I had to think about the fact that he and my former love knew each other. We still care for each other deeply, and I know his honor is everything. They were even friends themselves. In fact, he had come up during several conversations that evening. What a nightmare.
While it isn’t something I’m proud of, I’m honest enough to admit that I was lonely. He was lovely in his own right and somehow was both the opposite and reminiscent of the man I was missing. Mentally I threw my hands up in the air and decided to let him stay. One of my most distinct memories about that short time together was that he insistently requested a bedtime story. He had been so overtly masculine and straightforward that it caught me a bit off guard.
The details have grown very fuzzy, but I told him one about a girl that was traveling the world; forever on the go, on an eternal quest, always running and exploring. I readily admit that while not pre-meditated, it was a self indulgent tale that enthralled my listener. Maybe it’s that Italian flair for the dramatic, but he couldn’t get enough. Cheesy as ever, he quickly told his own tale of a boy that was desperate to be apart of this girl’s tale; “even if only for a night.” How annoying it is to now realize that he succeeded. He is right here in black and white.
At that moment, I found myself at the brink. It was identical to that childhood moment of stopping for an instant before canon-balling into the swimming pool. “Is the water too cold? Should I ease in one toe at a time? Do I want this man on my mind for months?” I didn’t think “Do I want to be on his mind for months?” but I should have. Realizing what I do now, it would’ve only been fair. But I wasn’t thinking about the implications of again being the mysterious girl in the foreign land, and tapping into a weakness of the seemingly macho Italiano. So while it’s certainly not a bad position to be in, and equally advantageous, it does have a way of weighing on the conscience. I was fresh out of what turned into a difficult long-distance relationship with my former lover and couldn’t emotionally take a repeat. Frankly, at that moment I was exhausted but felt the pull. Goddamn it. So while I eventually drew the line before the point of no return -I do have a touch of class- enough had transpired to make it memorable.
As I recall, I had a torturous night’s sleep but relatively awkward-free morning. We spent the day together with friends and had a nice, affection-free time. Goodbyes were painless. There was a bit of limited interaction in the weeks to follow, some that implied he was effected more than I realized, but nothing major. I continued on my travels without a second thought.
So with all that being said, I was honestly surprised when he popped up online a few months later, chatting up a storm. After a bit of easy talk, he began speaking directly with confusion and hurt that was entirely unexpected, wanting to know why I hadn’t reached out. Eventually he stated simply “Just please, don’t disappear again.... Okay?” I agreed, felt a little guilty, and then briefly found myself wondering what could have been if a.) circumstances were different and b.) I hadn’t been so quick to dismiss it as a mutually meaningless fling. I hadn’t thought I was “disappearing” because truthfully, I never thought of myself as there at all. I certainly don’t have any heartbroken regrets about what happened, but it has made me assess the desire to mark everything into its own neat and tidy package and never look back. In the end for him, it wasn’t the cut and dry, “fun for just a night” rapport. Eventually he did simply slip off into the wrinkles of time and space and c’est la vie, I suppose. Although it would be callous not to admit that I still think of him fondly.
In the end, the experience served to painlessly reiterate a lesson that hadn’t really sunk in the first time around, and by chance I had forgotten in the hurricane that my former love affair had become. For me, that lesson has been to not be excessively proud and deny genuine emotions out of fear. It’s its own long story, but my famous prior love was almost over before it began for that very reason. I believe this is partly due to the fact that it’s unfairly drilled into the minds of young woman that our male counterparts are only after one thing, and once the chance to attain it vanishes in some way or another, so do they. I, probably a bit more of a feminist than your average gal, am now admitting that I just don’t think that’s the overarching truth.
So while savoring the traces others leave with us, we can’t underestimate the bits of ourselves we leave behind. There is an inherent responsibility we hold to protect or at best try not to harm those we come into contact with, and for me that is steadily accepted with age. I thought my first Italiano continually pouring his heart out after I’d gone was an extreme rarity, but here was another one bleeding his heart out with an ocean of distance. Everything is not what it first seems and there’s a time and place to give the benefit of a doubt. Although maybe they’re just both incurable romantics. Maybe I am, too.
