I settled down into my desk and then did the thing I’d been longing to do. I reached into the front pocket of my laptop bag, and there it was, the most yummy of things.
The envelope blinked, telling me I had a new text message.
A. had sent me a simple “hey cutie, how are you” text, and I replied back with the playfulness that is so easy with him. I joked that I was still mad at him for blowing me off when I invited him to happy hour and that I wasn’t going to invite him to join me today–no way. (He lives two states away, so there’s no way he could pick up and meet my girlfriends and me at a bar, but inviting him is part of the game we play.)
A: “Believe me, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right next to you.”
Me: “I love it when you’re right next to me “
A: “And on top and underneath . . . “
Me: “And inside. We mustn’t forget that most important of prepositions “
And so the conversation went from there, he and I playing with one another with our thumbs until work eventually dragged us both away from our phones.
A. was my first lover, so I suppose it was easy to fall back into him when I found myself single-ish (I’ll explain that in another blog someday). I suppose there’s safety in familiarity . . . and plus there’s the amazing texting and sexing.
The thing is, though, that’s the only chemistry we seem to have. We’ve been able to see each other four times since we got back in touch (a feat, considering all the travel that’s required). One of those times we had our mutual friends there as a buffer, so we were cool. (Actually, they are his friends that I became friends with when we dated . . . and now I keep in closer touch with them than he does–huh.) But the other three times, pure awkwardness. All he could manage to say was, “Wow, you look amazing. I can’t believe it’s you and that you’re here. My God you look good. Wow.” No matter how adorable and witty I was, that was about all the conversation I could pull out of him. Didn’t get much beyond “wow.”
And so we had world-rocking sex instead. No need for brilliant conversation there.
I was telling a friend how ironic it is that I would be entangled with someone like A. I spend my life trading in words: I write them and analyze them, I teach my students to write them and analyze them. And yet words are the one thing I can’t seem to share with A . . . unless they’re words spoken by our thumbs.
But the odd thing is, I’m completely content with only having textual chemistry with him.