Friday May 24, 2013
1:43 p.m.
Stamford, Connecticut: poolside
It’s here! SUMMER 2013!
At times I honestly didn’t know if I would make it. For so long it seemed like every time I got a handle on things, something else would go wrong. Another fire to put out. Since this time last year, I have lived in six different locations.
But it’s Memorial Day weekend! And with that, the official beginning to the Season of Writing Outside. It’s a lot harder to be upset when the sun is shining. So viva la summer! And goodbye to another great guy.
Shuck is back. That sentence would have an exclamation point if it meant that he was also back in my life. Unfortunately for me, that’s not how the sentence ends.
If I were writing this a week ago, I would have said, “Shuck is back!” I would have written the statement after we talked for the first time in months.—He’d gotten home from his adventures in the South Pacific the day before and texted me that he was back in Brooklyn and extremely jetlagged. The next day he called me.—Man, I missed that man. His smooth yet rugged charm. His voice. His perspective.
Hypothetically, after I wrote “Shuck is back *Exclamation Point*”, I would have continued to gush, spilling my guts all over my journal. I would have admitted how much I missed him. And how happy I was just knowing that he is back in my hemisphere.
Perhaps it’s for the best that I didn’t waste time documenting something that would be irrelevant within the week.—Not long after we spoke, I saw him. He invited me over to his Greenpoint apartment to catch up while he recuperates from the 18-hour time lapse.
He was noticeably disheveled, comfy clothes and bed head. And he was skinnier than the last time I saw him. But still, he looked good on that fire escape, smoking a Thai cigarette, telling all me about his travels.
We talked for over two hours. Connection. Flirtation. Attraction. Check. Check. Check.
But he never made a move.—It’s been a few months since we used to kiss for a few months. Did he forget that we also used to do more than that?
He didn’t forget. He was just avoiding telling me the truth for as long as possible. Because he really does like me. He just doesn’t like me enough, I guess.
“I can’t kiss you,” he said. “I have a girlfriend now.”
Sometime between February and May, somewhere between Vietnam and Brooklyn, Shuck met another girl. And for reasons I’ll never know, he chose her.
It was time for me to leave. So I did. Goodbye Shuck.
You know what? While I’m at it…
(661) 555-1988
Chance Encounter’s phone number. I am writing it here for safe keeping because I just deleted it from my phone. If he doesn’t want me in his arms, I don’t want him at my fingertips.
Maybe if Chance still lived around the corner from Older Sister we would still be seeing each other, still enchanted by the magical moment of our chance encouter: Me walking down his street after leaving Older Sister’s apartment, on my way to the Atlantic Avenue subway station, looking for a light. Him on his stoop talking to his european roommate, a beautiful woman smoking a cigarette….
Stop it, Cha. None of that matters now. Because Chance Encounter is gone.
As long as Chance’s number was in my phone, there was a chance I’d use it to call him. He’d answer and we’d talk. Connection. Flirtation. Attraction. Check. Check. Check.
Then we’d hang up, and I would still be alone. Maybe even more alone than before we spoke.—The temporary fix replaced by a heart-wrenching withdrawal.—I know that he really does like me. He just doesn’t like me enough, I guess.
But Summer is here! Cheers to you, Cha Cha, and to the Season of Writing Outside.
Write more. Think about boys less. Lord knows, they are not thinking about me.