A Bad Man in a Bad Place

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After speaking with the Sous Chef a few weeks ago, I got an email from her on Monday morning asking if I was going to our mutual friends birthday party. I’d been invited a few days earlier and committed to going, and I told her so.

When I did, she told me that she was going to be there and looking forward to seeing me. I was guarded, as you would be if you showed up and someone who had dumped you was going to be there.

I won’t get into the details, but the night was a success. I met the love of the Sous Chef’s life, I caught up with her, she told me that she was “proud of me” for the series of revelations that I’ve had lately, and that she was glad to see that I was being less of the Bad Man and more of the guy she thought she’d met when we first met on July 4.

At the end of the night, I walked her to Broadway and to a cab. I don’t remember which of us asked first, but one of us said “do you want to come over tonight?” She’d made subtle references to things she didn’t like about my apartment throughout the night, as if to ask whether I’d fixed them and she’d be comfortable there. I had. When push came to shove, however, she wouldn’t go home with me. I asked.

Instead, she hailed a cab. “Do you want to cuddle? Just cuddle?” I admitted that I did.

Whether it was closure, the opportunity to see another New Yorker’s apartment (hers is nicer than mine), or just an excuse to spend a bit of time with her, I followed her to the Upper East Side. We reminisced about events along the route from one of our longer walks, and talked at the highest level about our lives.

There’s a certain comfort to be had with lovers, and I think that those of us who speak English lose out to the French in their nuanced view of love. I have no illusions about how things will turn out with the Sous Chef - she’s not for me, and I’m certainly not for her. But we did have a connection, and I have affection for her which is, I think, returned. We can root for each other, as I have done for Princess in the past, and sometimes, when we need comfort, we can turn to each other and be a temporary shelter. So long as we understand the issues, knows that it’s a temporary thing, and knows that while there is something like love that isn’t love, that it’s affection, good feelings, and caring, then everything is alright.

I got closure that night in a way that our phone call hadn’t given me. I now leave the experience happy that I had it, as opposed to the way it was before.

On our way up to her place, every 10 blocks I asked if she was sure she wanted me to follow her there. I knew that it wasn’t me she wanted or needed, but that she needed someone. She seemed conflicted, wishing that it was the other guy, but since he wasn’t available, I was safe, and kind, and in the cab with her. We talked for about an hour, and I held her. She drifted off to sleep mid-sentence, and eventually, I followed. I woke up at 7:30 with the first of her many alarm clocks. I thanked her, through her sleepy-haze, for everything. Gave her a kiss on the top of her head that somehow I can still feel and smell, and said “Be good. Don’t be a stranger.” I dressed, and left.

I sent her a text message on my way out, fully expecting to never hear from her again, but saying thank you, and that I was glad we’d seen each other, and that we should stay buddies and she shouldn’t be a stranger anymore. After her precipitous disappearance, and everything else that had happened, I truly didn’t expect to hear back, and didn’t care if I didn’t, I’d gotten the opportunity to put one of my ghosts to rest, an opportunity few people ever get.

At noon, I heard back from her. She liked the idea of being friends and staying in touch.

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