“If I never hear from Guy again, I guess I have to be OK with that.” I am probably fooling myself, but I have to try something. “An ex of mine once told me that he wasn’t sad when we broke up because having met me meant that he would never settle for anything less. I raised his bar. I guess Miles did that for you. With Guy, it’s what he represents to me, even if I don’t know him well enough to say.”
He’s exactly the man I could only dream of; a compassionate, loving man who listens, has a sense of humor, wants to see the world, and enjoys the frivolous things in life just as much as the sentimental. A man who continues to speak to me even after I quote Shakespeare, linger creepily behind him waiting for a drink, and get angry at him for getting between me and my best friend. Oh God. This was going to be a painful one – no matter which way it went.
The airport approaches too quickly. Neither Chelsea nor I are completely ready for the future that lies ahead. We both remain strong and don’t let the goodbyes linger. We hug tightly and promise to talk as much as possible. I wave until I can no longer see her. I take a moment before I grab my phone.
THE FIRST WEEK
“Hello?” I answer the phone.
“Well?” Chelsea asks.
“I got an email from him!” I can’t help it! I’m very eager to tell my best friend all about it.
“I told you that you would. How exciting!”
“Do you want me to read it to you?”
“Duh.”
“OK. Let me pull it up on my computer.”
The Monday evening that Chelsea left to go back to Maryland and back to her husband was a sad one for me – I was sad to see her go, and I was sad that Guy hadn’t gotten in touch – much sadder than I had anticipated.
There was always a possibility that he might not call or get in touch again, but I wasn’t fully prepared for how upset I would actually feel when it happened. As much as I had tried to not let his lack of communication affect me, I just couldn’t believe he would leave without wanting to see me.
It had taken four days to get my first email from him, and the range of emotions I felt leading up to today was unbearable – well, I obviously bore it, but it was the closest thing I’d come to unbearable. My mind rambled on and on about the possibilities – perhaps he truly did have a girlfriend, maybe he was just busy with packing or catching up on sleep.
I questioned our connection one moment, but then was utterly sure of it the next. I tossed and turned at night. I dreamt about kissing him over and over again, the taste of his breath still lingering in my mouth. I replayed all the nice things he said about me, and the butterflies would return.
I could still feel him close to me. The thought that I may never hear from him again left my hands clammy and my eyes red with exhaustion and fear. It was absurd the strength of my feelings for him. To say I have never felt anything close to this was an understatement – I never knew sentiments could be so pure towards someone. With anyone else, there was always a question or a negative trait lurking in their personality. I was always the first to find it. With him, I could find nothing.
Chelsea called me every evening around the same time of day for those four days, asking if I had received an email, firmly believing that I would indeed hear from him. I had given up hope entirely, but she hadn’t.
It ended up that he never got my text messages because I didn’t have international text messaging set up on my phone. (I found this out when I called my phone company, and they said it costs $5 more per month for international text messaging – I promptly asked them to please add this package, thank you.) Plus, he couldn’t access his voicemail box in the States, and although he had seen that he had a missed call, it was blocked (being an international number and all), and therefore didn’t know for sure that it was from me. I am happy to know that he seemed genuinely upset that he wasn’t able take me out to lunch that next day.
And the questions game. Something so simple and so thoughtful. Three questions per email. He actually wants to know who I am – it has nothing to do with trying to get me in bed or being his arm candy, as I have often felt with other men. His intentions are clear and I won’t admit this to myself yet, but there is no one else who can compare to him – not after this.
I’m trying to play it cool with Guy. I don’t want to become too entangled too quickly. I don’t want to rush into something like I have seen women in my family do over and over again. I want to protect my heart.
I know I have to get a grip. I can’t be spending the next four months in a panic each and every time I don’t hear from him. Plus, this seems like the perfect opportunity for me in more ways than one. I need a plan of action in my life anyway, and what better excuse to kick-start it than the thought of going to see a man I like in four months time? If we do end up getting together in July, then I want to be at my absolute best - emotionally, physically, financially and mentally. If I don’t meet up with him, at least I would be at my best – emotionally, physically, financially and mentally, and would in better shape to handle such a massive disappointment.
After work, I rip a piece of paper out of one of my many unfinished journals, and divide the page into four sections with my blue ruler – the same blue ruler I’ve had since high school. My handwriting is so messy normally, but I concentrate on writing in straight lines. If I’m going to be referencing this page for four months, I want it to be legible. I write the headers.
I tap my pen on the table. The first three are easy, but the mentally? How does one ensure maximum mental potential? I scribble down the first things that come to mind. I leave the third space blank on mentally – will have to wait for that to come to me.
I cut the edges of the paper and grab a piece of tape. I stick it above my desk. I read it over and over, making sure I haven’t left anything out, and when I’m satisfied, I lay back down on my bed to daydream about Guy. I think about his questions and formulate my next email to him. I picture him reading it with his shirt off, lying on his bed with his laptop open at his “flat”. I snuggle up next to him in my mind.
Chelsea is on another mission of her own. She knows she has to tell Victor soon how she truly feels, but she isn’t ready to yet.
“How did it go when you saw Victor?” I asked her yesterday on the phone.
“He’s onto me. He’s been so nice. Even though we barely talked while I was away. Last night, he was cuddling all close to me – Adele, he hasn’t cuddled with me for nearly a year. He usually falls asleep on the sofa. So, he got all close and whispered, ‘Do you love me?’”
“What did you say? Oh, no,” I said, covering my mouth.
“I told him yes, I loved him. I had to. I couldn’t find it in me to tell him the truth but I don’t know how much longer I can live like this.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to speak to my mom this weekend. I’m going to tell her everything and see what she thinks. I want to make sure I have the option to move in with her before I make any other decisions.”
“Have you heard from Miles?” I dared to ask.
“No. I’m sure he’s forgotten about me by now.”
“I’m sure he hasn’t. He just got back. Perhaps it’s less complicated if he doesn’t get in touch anyway.” I don’t want to provoke her or encourage her to think about him. That might only hurt her more.
“You’re probably right, but it doesn’t stop me from hoping that he does get in touch each and every second.”
And so that’s how the next four months would go. Chelsea and I talking at least four times a week, me reading Guy’s emails to her (except the really intimate parts), her telling me all the drama that was going on in her life with Victor.
THE MIDWAY POINT
I’m obsessively checking my Blackberry for his emails – every minute on the minute. Tess bought me a Blackberry after I convinced her I needed to be in touch while running errands. I sleep with it, I go to the bathroom with it, and I clean with it. Except when I step onto
the beach. That’s my alone time.
Each time it goes off, I hold my breath hoping it’s from the handsome Englishman. That little red light beeps and I pray it is Guy giving me an update on his African adventures. His emails are constant, but sporadic. After all, as Chelsea had to constantly remind me, “He’s in Africa!”
I know he’s in Africa. I know that. I know that Internet is sparse. I also know that most of his time is spent traveling, sightseeing, and experiencing an entirely different culture, and I honestly want him to be enjoying himself. It’s incredible what he’s doing, and I get that. But, I don’t care.
I still want him to find an Internet cafe in the safari. I want him to turn on his iPhone, and get charged ridiculous prices for sending an email or giving me a phone call, everyday. I want that gorilla he’s walking past to turn into a helicopter so he can get his ass back to me. I want that hut he watches football in to also supply him with a webcam. I want that girl in those Facebook pictures to turn ugly, very ugly and soon.
I want to hear from him more, but I also understand that in Africa, technology is less than perfect and often unavailable, and how special I should feel. I just want to be there with him, let’s be honest.
The fact that he’s in Africa doesn’t stop the doubts from flooding in when a week or two pass by with no word. I find myself in a back and forth pattern – on the one hand, convincing myself he will get in touch when he can, and on the other hand, my mind protecting me by trying to forget he even exists – by squeezing any thoughts of him out and away. It never works.
There are times when I get an email from him after a week of no correspondence at all, and I do my best to wait a couple of days until I respond, so as not to sound too desperate. But, then there are other times that I think he might be online waiting for my response, so I respond immediately, hoping to catch him.
The intricacies of online communication consume me and I find myself analyzing the smallest of words. I search for patterns in the times and days of the week that he most often replies to me so as to be able to predict when I will hear from him. I chant his name while driving, showering or cooking dinner, thinking the vibrations will carry to Africa and he’ll know I’m thinking of him. “Guy, Guy, Guy, Guy, Guy, Guy.” I am ridiculous and becoming obsessed.
Which is why I have a date tonight.
Tess convinced me that I shouldn’t put all my eggs in one basket. “This is a man that you met for eight hours in Las Vegas,” she said last week. “Who knows what he could be getting himself into during his travels. Should you be the miserable one sat at home waiting for him, when he is probably out parading around, and having the time of his life? With other girls, more than likely.”
Well, when you put it like that, Tess. She makes it all sound so pathetic – well, not all, just me. She makes me sound pathetic.
I really am unenthusiastic for this date. I know he won’t possibly be able to live up to Guy, but a part of me knows that Tess is right. All my planning and soul-searching can only do so much when the inevitable day comes to fly to Chicago – if it comes at all. I need options.
I throw on a pair of dark skinny jeans and a black and white striped t-shirt. My hair is finally a pretty white blonde, but I don’t bother styling it. I throw it in a ponytail. I accentuate my eyes as normal with a bit of eyeliner, but no eye shadow.
David is a friend of Tess’s husband and will be picking me up in thirty minutes. I’m early and I hate being ready with time to spare. I don’t want to think or have time to doubt this decision, even though the dread is already building up, so I take a short walk down to the Fresh and Easy Supermarket to buy a diet soda.
I grab my Blackberry, in case I hear from him, and because I want to call Sam to hear her thoughts on my night tonight. We haven’t spoken for any length of time for at least a month because she’s been so busy with touring. She created a series of monologues based on her experience growing up Jewish in a black community and there has been an outpour of support and interest from the Jewish community. She has flown to Miami, New York, Detroit, and she just got back to Los Angeles last night.
The old man in the big glasses and polka-dotted pajamas is standing on the curb with his cigar. Only this time his pajamas are a bright pink color – different than his usual red. I walk past him as I always do, and he looks away, as he always does. I give Sam a call, but it goes straight to her voicemail. “Hey lady. It’s me. I have this date tonight and I really don’t want to go. Need your advice. And can’t wait to hear about your shows and how they went. I’ve missed you. Call me as soon as you get this and if I don’t answer, it’s because I’m bored stiff at a date with some strange man.”
On my way back, I pass by the old man again. I get up to my steps, about to punch in my code to the wire gate.
“You’ll be fine.” A throaty, deep voice rings out from down the street. I turn my head, unsure if that was for me or not. The old man is standing in his spot, looking up in my direction. His glasses are so thick that they distort his eyes, so I can’t get the exact direction they’re pointing, but his head’s facing me. I look around again to make sure there’s no one else he could be speaking to.
I point to myself as if to say ‘Are you speaking to me?’ He nods his head. I slowly walk back towards him, still unsure why he would want to talk to me. He’s not moving, and nor would I expect him to at his age.
“Recently single?” he asks, once I finally get to a comfortable talking distance. “I noticed he hasn’t been around lately.” He speaks in a legato rhythm, smooth and flowing. He draws out each word as if he’s savoring them, chewing each syllable separately.
“Really? You noticed that? I wouldn’t say I was recently single. In fact, it’s been quite a long time now – over a year and a half in reality, but six months since its grand finale,” I chuckle. “Long story, anyway, that’s funny you noticed,” I ramble. “I’m rambling. There are so many people that pass by, I didn’t think you’d ever noticed me….”
“If I were to ask you what was in your grocery bag, what would you say?”
“I would say, go ahead and take a look.” I take on his challenge. He won’t scare me. He motions for me to open it, and looks in without bending down, just adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
“You don’t need to lose weight,” he says. I peek into my bag, questioning my purchases. I must have absentmindedly picked up rice cakes as well as my soda. That’s nice of him to say, but I disagree. Why is he so interested in my purchases?
Just as quickly (or slowly) as he demanded to see inside my bag, he looks back up at me and points his cigar and finger towards my chest. “Listen young lady, what date were you born? Date and year, not day.” I look around me to see if anyone else is in earshot, I don’t want my birthday being out in the public arena. I guess he has some valid reason for asking me my birth date.
“July 25th, 1984.” It rolls off my tongue.
“Ah, you were born on a Wednesday,” he says without taking a breath. “That’s a good day. You’ll be all right. You’ll be all right, just as I thought.” His whole body rocks forward and back as he takes in the information, reiterating his approval and confirmation.
“Yes…I was born on a Wednesday. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s right. Trying to picture my birth certificate. Umm, how did you-”
“You like someone else now,” he says, peering over his gigantic square glasses and still swaying to and fro. I begin to answer automatically, but he doesn’t wait for my response. “That other man wasn’t right for you in any way, your ex. He was punching above his weight with you. He got scared that you would find that out. He hasn’t yet learnt that treating a woman like shit won’t resolve that issue. He will. This new guy, do you know his birthday?”
I’m not sure what I’m hearing, but I answer him. “Yes, I do actually. I wouldn’t normally keep track so early on,” I say self-consciously. “But we were both born on the 25th, so it was easy to remember. He was born on the 25th
of November 1978.” I smile to myself.
“Oh, a Saturday,” he says. His mouth drops down for a half moment and his eyes widen. “And an Englishman, I see.”
“How did you know he was English?” I ask. A look of shock is spreading across his face. “You put the date before the month. We don’t do that as Americans.”
“Ah,” I nodded, although I didn’t see how that gave away his nationality. After all, the French and most every other culture in the world mark their calendar that way. For him to know he was English was either uncanny or a good guess.
“A Wednesday and a Saturday – you can’t get a more perfect match than that.” Perhaps I misinterpreted his look of shock. Yes, he’s not shocked; he’s elated. His face wrinkles up behind his spectacles, he’s trying to figure out something else.
“I’m not sure if he’s a Saturday, but I could definitely ask -”
“Go ahead and ask. He’s a Saturday. This is inimitable. I’ve never seen such alignment. A Leo and a Sagittarius – again a perfect match. Wednesday and Saturday. Amazing.” His finger taps on the cigar. “Marry him.” He stares me down; a look of intensity flashes across his face. He then cracks a smile, warm and full of honesty. I have never seen his teeth, and I’m pretty sure I never want to again – they are large, rusty, square chicklets. He puffs on his cigar one last time, tosses it to the ground and stomps on it, crunching it with his slipper.
“That’s not a lot of pressure, now is it?” I push air out of my nose, laughing mouth-closed at my own joke. He doesn’t laugh back. My heart is pounding, and the date tonight seems so trivial suddenly. I have a million questions for the old man, but by the time anything else forms om my lips, he is gone. He meanders back to his normal post and pulls another cigar from his pocket.
“Well, thanks. I’ll remember that,” I say to no one in particular.
I grab my mail on my way into my apartment. I wait until I am inside and on my bed. There is one piece – a small package from Africa. I rip it open and inside there is a postcard with a lion on the front and the words on the back:
Three Questions Page 24