The men I dated were about two months old – usually with a statement to meet someone new at the concert. But with this man, two months passed, then six, then nine, and we were still talking almost every day. Never in a way that points towards a serious relationship, but certainly more than just friends. I now knew his thoughts on his 15-year plan, marriage, and past relationships as to how he spent his summers on the farm, his poetic skills and his irrational hatred about the film “Frozen.”
He knew about my dream to open my job and travel the world, my hopeless musical passion, and every phrase that made me blush. It felt like it could actually be something. It felt like, maybe, maybe this was also becoming something. I hoped that one day we would get a chance to explore it.
A year later, in February 2020, we saw each other once again at a hotel in Chicago, stopping a pit before his next contract sent him away elsewhere. This time there was expectations, confusion and a lot of time when I at least got over it. But once we were together, I drifted into that comfortable place again. We wasted no time and fell into bed, only to walk out of the room to meet the takeout delivery guy in the lobby.
When we decided to sleep, he kept checking to see if I had dozed off yet; When I was awake, he wanted to avoid drifting on me. In part, I knew that if he was a bear’s body heat, he was looking to clean up.
Initially, I told him on a call that I understood how cuddling actually turns into swallowing fast, but that I’m a sucker for holding hands. I could almost see her eyes through the phone.
That night, I pretended to fall asleep for one of his check-ins, so I knew that when he distanced himself from me, he was trapped under the covers until he grabbed my hand and gave him the night. Kept it full