Post Love

I left my wife three years ago.
I write about the women that fill up the void.

Post Love Forty Five

There’s only one place to turn once you’ve hit rock bottom. Back to square one. The dating site. Except this time around, I didn’t bother trying my luck. I was too far down. Instead, I did the opposite. I made the most obnoxious profile I could muster up, and amused myself with the endlessly annoying and creepy messages I’d send out. I’d pretend I had the girl confused with old girlfriends, with strippers, I’d pretend I was an ex-con or old junkie boyfriend who just got out of rehab. I’d reference  their photos or parts of their profiles and recall non-existant memories we shared. I’d tell them what no one wants to hear. I’d pick the most stuck up looking ones, the ones with the most horribly egotistical profiles, and I’d have a go at them. 

It was not a revenge on women. It was revenge on stupid women. It was just the kind of thing one has to do for self-preservation. If such pathetic pleasures are the only pleasures I can find, then that’s what will get me through. Bide time, let the wounds heal, and stir up some trouble along the way. I was never downright mean. I worked along the edges of awkwardness and discomfort. I did so until the day I found a girl that I just couldn’t do it to. Her profile was full of clever little segments, funny lines, and cute smiles. She stopped me dead in my tracks. I messaged her and told her the truth. I told her what I’d been doing, and that I couldn’t do it to her. Much to my surprise, she replied. She thought it was funny, and we started talking. It was one of those times where you think things might be okay with the world because something unexpected happened, and it brings you joy. Those kinds of times can be rare. 

Her name was Mahin. She was a short, attractive, Iranian nerd. She spent all of her spare time in a lab, pursuing some kind of science degree. She was late to meet me on the corner as she dragged her heavy backpack on her little shoulders and pushed her old framed glasses up the bridge of her nose. Right away, I felt good around her. She was naturally pretty, but unassuming under all that nerdiness. And most of all, she didn’t seem to care. I think that’s what I really liked about her. She didn’t pretend to be anyone else. She wasn’t nervous or awkward about anything. She was confident and intelligent. She was her own person and she let me right in. We started talking and we never stopped. We talked all night. We sat down to eat in an empty little place we both decided on, with a few people watching the game and the two of us rejoicing, discussing all the old daytime tv shows we used to watch, reveling in the obscurities like the geeks we were. Her nose was pointy and petite, sitting adorably between her large warm brown eyes and her gorgeous, honest smile. She was just a tiny bit overweight, just enough for it to be more attractive than if she hadn’t been, just enough to add to her personality, to her not giving a fuck, a comfortable belly and a full butt on a small frame, I sat there and thought about fucking her. I wanted to fuck her because I wanted to pleasure her. I wanted to make her feel good for making me feel good. I wanted to make her cum because she was beautiful.

When simple things make you feel good, they seem to last longer. I was perfectly content that night, the whole night, for no real reason. Just simple conversation with someone new. Someone that clicks. That’s all I needed to feel happy. 

After dinner we walked around for a while, enjoying a nice spring evening until it was late. I walked her home and smiled as we said our goodbyes. I turned and walked away feeling the same way I used to feel walking out of a store with things in my pockets that I didn’t pay for. I walked with nervous legs and jittery hands, a big smirk and a sense of getting away with it. I’d done it. I’d met someone and liked them. I kept walking til I met the corner of my street, turned, and sat on the old wooden bench. I sat there and took it all in. I inhaled for what seemed to be the first time in hours. I inhaled and I farted. I let out all the farts that guys hold in on dates, not just from being guys but mostly from nervousness. From the anticipation and swallowing air from talking so much and breathing faster than usual, to keep up with your heart that is beating faster than usual, eyes more shiny than usual, thoughts less black than usual.

I sat on that bench for ten, maybe fifteen minutes. There was no reason to get up or to go anywhere. I didn’t want to go home. Not yet. I sat there and felt good for the first time in what felt like years. Maybe it had been years. I sat there until I felt silly sitting there, and then I went home.

The next day I emailed her a video of something the we had talked about. Just a casual few lines, but an active pursuit nonetheless. A foot in the door ever so gently, a pleasant reminder, and then I waited til I heard from her. Mahin was almost done her semester and would be leaving in a few weeks to spend the summer with family in New Jersey. Maybe that’s why she didn’t respond right away. School, packing, traveling, these things get hectic.

Nine days later, she responded. Hey, I am going to NY in 10 days. So I don’t think we should see each other now. I am sorry if I just say that like that. I only say it like that because I think you’ll understand. You are nice like that.

It’s the last line that got me. You are nice like that. Yes, I am. I did understand. I understood that it was a line. I understood that I would never see her again. I understood denial very well. I knew it goes hand in hand with being nice. I knew that this time I had to face the lessons that I was being taught. Lesson one. You’re too nice to the girls you like and too mean to the ones you don’t. Find a balance. Find something. Lesson two. You don’t deserve the good ones. Lesson three. You’re the nice one, the harmless one, the one that will understand. It doesn’t matter if you despise being that one. It’s who you are. 

Mahin ended the email with some good old false hope. Okay bye. Maybe we’ll catch up when I get back in a few months. Yeah, right. I ignored the email as long as I could. I think I lasted a few hours. Then I replied. 

I understand.

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